■CLIFHTO.N yy. LUCFsS
ilsilii! Hiiiiiiii III
A Trolley Honeymoon
Delaware to Maine
CLINTON W, LUCAS
Fully illustrated tuith 53 engra.'vings
THE M. W. HAZEN COMPANY
LIBRARY cf CONGRESsI
CLASS </«. XAc. NOi
By M. W. HAZEN
The chief object of this volume is to record the adven-
tures and misadventures of a ten-days' trolley trip from
Delaware to Maine — a distance of about five hundred
miles, as the electrics run. As the dominant idea was
a pleasant outing, the two travelers did not follow
the direct route, preferring in every case the allure-
ments of an attractive countryside to the mere saving
of time and distance. For there are more things in
trolleying than are dreamt of in the philosophy of
time-tables and connecting schedules.
Though the experi-ences here recorded are in the
main autobiographical, yet the sequence of events has
sometimes been changed, and an element of fiction
added to give unity to the narrative.
LIST OF CHAPTERS
I. A Spectacular Start 7
II. From Quakerdom by Pastoral Scenes 20
III. Misadv'entures in Jersey 38
IV. A Swarm of Excursionists 52
V. On the Connecticut Shore 60
VI. A Mysterious Pursuit 72
VII. From Hartford over the Massachl'setts Hills 82
VIII. A Fortunate Decision 96
IX. In which We are Gorged with History 108
X. Coming through the Ryes 117
A Trolley Honeymoon
A Spectacular Start.
" Mercy's sake, what will you do when there's a
thunderstorm ? " queried of us one dear, old soul upon
whose life of celibacy the haunting fear of lightning
had cast its blighting shadow.
" What will the thunderstorm do? That's the ques-
tion," we countered.
" You'll surely be struck," she added oracularly.
Though such were the predictions of ill, when
Louisa and I broached our plan of trolleying to Maine,
yet like Hamlet we defied augury. For we had been
seized with trolley mania so long that it was only
natural we should be carried away by it even on our
To be sure, a trolley trip of five hundred miles prom-
ised some measure of uncertainty, if not discomfort;
but duly forewarned, as we had been, we made careful
preparations for the journey, preparations indeed that
in the light of subsequent experience bordered on the
Advice was generously showered upon us. First of
all, we were cautioned by friends rich in wisdom to
guard against the vagaries of an irresponsible weather
A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON
bureau, and particularly to take along a sufficient sup-
ply of coats and wraps, though as to what a sufficiency
was, many conflicting standards were suggested. All
these suggestions, however, we took greedily as a cat
laps milk; and the consequence was that when we
started on our trip, we were saddled with an array of
personal baggage that would have appalled even a
British tourist on a Channel steamer. Long wraps and
THE STARTING POINT, WILMINGTON
short wraps there were; thick coats and thin coats;
linen dusters and mackintoshes; rubbers and umbrel-
las — all alike bidding defiance to Jove and weather
It was under this smothering load that we peeped
one July noon as we sallied from our home in Wilming-
ton amid a gleeful shower of rice and old shoes. The
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 9
spectacular congratulations of a score of merry friends
attended us to Court House Corner, where we were to
board the trolley car for Darby. It was already in
Hardly, however, had we heard the larum of the
vibrating gong before a waggish member of our escort-
ing party stepped in front of me and, making an excru-
ciating bow, presented us on behalf of our assembled
friends with a kodak and a huge, hollow pencil over
two feet long, filled brimful with shining nickels fresh
from the mint. Stammering out our thanks for the
appropriate gifts, we dubbed them on the spot Killdeer
and Nicholas Nickleby respectively; and most faithful
companions both proved to be.
The motorman pulled up promptly at my signal,
but we were so heavily loaded down with coats, suit
cases and what-not, and so embarrassed by the spec-
tacular demonstrations of our friends, that boarding
the car proved far from an eas}' manoeuvre. I tried
to assume an air of dignified unconcern ; but, as usual,
it was the umbrella that undid me. Just as I was
about to gripe the handrail, the skeleton-ribbed little
imp slipped its moorings — purposely of course — from
under the coats on my arm and, slyly tripping me up,
sent me sprawling in the dust.
" If I had only one coat more," I thought, directing
an apologetic look at Louisa, " but that a magic one
like Brunhilde's to make me invisible."
Amid salvos of mock applause I scrambled up and,
gathering the scattered baggage, I dove desperately
into the car, clutching Killdeer in one hand, and
Nicholas in the other. As I swung myself into a seat,
10 A TROLLEY HONEYMOOX
my kodak which I was carrying- with all the conscious
pride of the amateur's first, struck against a yellow tur-
ban in front of me with sufficient force to bring forth
the protesting ejaculation, " Fo' de Lawd sake," while
the whites of two eyes blinked reproachfully at me.
Louisa, however, who had preceded me into the car,
had fared much better. Fortunately, her manual dex-
terity acquired naturally with the shopping- habit,
MARKET STREET, WILMINGTON
enabled her to retain a masterly grip upon l)ag and
baggage. As the conductor jangled the double signal
to start, a whirlwind of rice swept past our seats to the
boundless delight of two small boys behind us; and
the voices of our friends rose in one long wavering
cheer, while away we sped down North INIarket street.
I shot a hastv glance at the tail-board of the car, but
A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON 11
the alert conductor had already removed a huge, ribr
bon-bedecked placard that proclaimed trumpet-tongued
" Off on a Trolley Honeymoon."
It was perfect trolley weather; scarcely a cloud was
in the sky; and the sun's rays were tempered by a
" 'Twas one of the charmed days,
When the genius of God doth flow,
The wind may alter twenty ways,
A tempest cannot blow ;
It may blow^ north, it still is warm;
Or south, it still is clear;
Or east, it smells like a clover farm;
Or west, no thunder fear."
The tranquil spirit of that July day had descended
upon the shade-embowered streets of Wilmington.
Never had they seemed more deeply peaceful — a calm
that breathed no whisper of the riotous scenes which
but a few days later made Delaware the nation's talk.
Only the noisy gratulations of our escorting party
broke the quietude of court-house corner. Just across
the way under a canopy of trees a grizzled negro,
through whose torn straw hat woolly wisps of hair
were straggling, was reclining against the iron fence
in deep enjoyment of noontide nap. A block away an
autocar stood near the curb. Profiting by the absence
of the owner, a veritable Uncle Remus, black as the
ace of spades, was down on his hands and knees, explor-
ing the mysteries of the machine. There was a grin
on his face from ear to ear, as he recklessly fondled
the cranks and levers; Imt luckily in spite of strong
12 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
provocation the auto kept its self-control, while Uncle
Remus continued his investigations.
Still his fate is only conjectural, for he was soon
lost to view, as we dashed down North Market street.
At Brandywine bridge we received a farewell volley of
rice from the hands of three devoted but misguided
friends, who had planned a surprise for us there.
Shaking off the effects of the fusilade. we settled our-
selves comfortably for the long ride before us. In a
few minutes we were out in the open country, and the
unbroken rumble of the wheels told of a clear track
and heightened speed. As we whizzed past a corn-
field on the left, a " little boy blue," catching the spirit
of the occasion, waved his hoe gleefully at us. To the
right we looked down upon the broad waters of the
Delaware glistening in the sun, and beyond we
described a splotch of green and yellow, the woods and
fields of Jersey miles away.
Rumble — Rattle. On we sped by field and farm,
by the antiquated toll-gates, where the drowsy keepers
gazed wearily at us, and then by sleepy cross-roads and
countrv stores with boxes and barrels piled high in
front, perched luxuriously upon which sat groups of
gossiping loungers. Rattle — Rumble. x\long we
rushed past hovel and villa, past hedge and rail fence,
disturbing the day dream of the meditative cow and
provoking to explosive wrath the barking small dog by
the roadside. Now we scurried over the main highway,
now we darted through the woods and spluttered out
again upon the Chester pike. Up hill and down we
tore, zigging and zagging through garden and orchard
until crossing the State line we neared the river's edge.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
Now, with a louder warning of the gong, we went
whirhng past rows of factory tenements and a stone
mill hardby at a sharp bend in the road; then rose
before us the stacks and chimneys of Chester. At
slackened speed we ran through the suburbs, where we
caught a fleeting view of the darker side of Chester
life — three little pickaninnies doing a cakewalk on a
GLIMPSE OF THE DELAWARE
Street corner. There was a brief stop in the center of
the town. Few signs of activity were visible; but near
a weather-beaten pagoda, which served as a newspaper
stand, were lounging a group of men and boys with
hands in their pockets, gazing listlessly upon passing
objects. Another twist and turn; and we were out on
the pike again, flying fast toward Darby and drawing
gradually awa^ from the river.
A TIWLLEY HONEYMOON
Rumble — Rattle. We bustled through a succession
of suburban villages, past old stone houses and old-
time taverns, the walls of which had often resounded
to the echoes of the post horn; and now we were bowl-
ing along a grass track under arching shade trees.
Here a beard-blown goat, tied to a stake, turned an
imploring look upon us; and there a flaring sign,
A PASSING SHOT
" Eggs for Hatching," brought the old proverb to
At the dissolving scenes I snapped Killdeer right and
left, though, as I afterwards learned, with a reckless
defiance of the most elementary laws of photography.
At parting, my friends had scrupulously enjoined upon
me, when taking a snap, to stand about ten feet off and
always keep the object in the sun. The gentle satire
A TROLLEY HONEYMOOA' 15
of this advice soon became patent, for all along the
route the most striking " subjects " conspired to stand
in the deepest shadow or a stone shot off; and if by-
chance, or mistake, the sunlight lit up a scene, the view
had fled before I could level Killdeer. Then I resolved
to discard the use of the finder, and like my hero of
schoolboy days, Hawkeye, fire by the sense of touch.
This I did, sparing neither Nature, man nor beast,
shooting as fast as I could load and reload. As noth-
ing worth a snap condescended to stray within the ten-
foot limit, I defied space and shot anything that swept
past the horizon. It was a proud moment when I
snapped at the Delaware, while we were going at the
fastest burst of speed; but great was my chagrin to
learn a few weeks later on developing the film that my
rapid fire art had reproduced a superb likeness of Mt.
Pelee at a busy hour ; in some mysterious way the swirl
of the kodak had transformed the peaceful Delaware
into inky black clouds and eddies of volcanic smoke.
Darby corner looked at one with itself and all the
world, when we descended from the flyer there, to
change for Philadelphia.
" That's a haunted house over there, isn't it ? "
exclaimed Louisa, indicating a small frame house on a
corner diagonally across from where we stood. It was
dilapidated and moss-covered with age; the faded slat
shutters were closed tight, except under a dormer win-
dow, where they had been partly ripped off, disclosing
broken window panes; in short every indication of
occupancy was wanting.
" You must get within ten feet of it," I enjoined
upon Louisa, who was aiming the kodak at the house.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
" Not of a haunted house," she returned, taking three
snaps excitedly. I thought no more about them until
weeks afterward, when striking off the prints I found
I had three shadowy houses standing on the very same
spot — all limned on one film.
'' I told you it was haunted," smiled Louisa.
" It certainly does look ghastly," I assented, mark-
ing for identification Killdeer's first spirit picture.
ON CHESTER PIKE. NORWOOD
There was nothing to disturb the solemn stillness of
Darby save the rattle of a double truck, which came
spinning out of the car-barn a short distance up the
winding street. We were standing in front of an ice
cream experimental station, conjecturing the meaning
of a sign above the door that read " Pappas." As we
were thus engaged, our speculations were suddenly
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
interrupted by a stubby, red-faced man with a wrinkled
blue suit and a professional trolley expression, who
smirking grotesquely, thrust into my hand an opened
telegram with an intimation that I was the person to
whom it related. Scrutinizing it, I read: "Bridal
couple arrived Darby from W. 2-30 — have special
ready." Though I recognized in the announcement
the fine Italian hand of our mischievous friends at
home, I earnestly disclaimed the unexpected honor, at
the same time absentmindedly flicking a few stray
flakes of rice from the coats upon my arm. The regu-
lar for Philadelphia was just starting and we hurriedly
fled to it, leaving the inquisitive conductor in a state
of mingled wrath and perplexity.
On we sped into the city limits. Stops were fe\V,
18 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
We scuttled steadily along, past the creek and dam by
the edge of which stand the venerable walls of the Blue
Bell tavern; past the trim enclosure and iron railings
of historic St. James; past shanty and cottage; along
by signs proclaiming " Pasturage for Horses," and in
odd juxtaposition rows of newly-built houses with the
builders' placards still attached to them; by endless
rows of porches, not a few of which were festooned
with the family wash in a prevailing color scheme of
red and white; down streets lined with maples, from
one of which a sign, " Socialistic Mass Meeting,"
stared us aggressively in the face; along past the low,
brick walls of the factory where the first trolley car
was built; and then by a modest structure which pro-
claimed itself " The Home for Widows and Single
Women," but which nevertheless gave no sign of
human habitation. Soon the columned entrance of
Woodlands Cemetery was in sight. Then speedily rose
before us the Memorial Tower of the University, its
arched entrance affording us a brief peep at the trim
greensward within; and only a block away the green
walls of College Hall mantled with woodbine, while
nearby could be seen the red turrets and grinning gar-
goyles of the Library building.
The scene shifted quickly to the muddy Schuylkill,
of which we had a hurried view from the bridge above.
Its banks were lined with coal yards and blackened
walls, while from the yellowish haze peered many tow-
ering chimney stacks, smudging the sky with inky
Now at last we were speeding down Chestnut street.
As we crossed Broad, we caught sight of the gray,
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
weather-stained walls of the Public Buildings; and
craning our necks, we spyglassed high up on the tower
the long coat and wide-brimmed hat of William Penn,
his back half turned upon us. We were in the heart
of Quaker dom.
IN THE HEART OF OUAKERDOM
From Quakerdom by Pastoral Scenes.
Monday^ sacred in a pristine civilization to the wash-
tub, is bargain day in Philadelphia ; and it is then that
Quakerdom seethes with excitement. The corners of
Eighth and Market streets, in the shadow as they are
of four department stores, are a center of the shopping
hurricane. As we pushed through the scurrying throng
on the edge of the storm, Louisa caught the contagion
of the scene, and her eyes danced with the elementary
passion of the hour sale and bargain counter.
The Willow Grove car, however, was at the crossing
and beckoned us onward up Eighth street to complete
the second stage of our journey. Though this narrow
thoroughfare, lined as it was with small shops and bust-
ling with a motley throng of hawker, shopper, and
lounger, certainly abounds in the element of human
interest, yet its scenic setting is but a forlorn waste of
signs and awnings.
" It's the fermentation of the ignominious," quoted
Louisa, who adores Ruskin and whose art runs to dale
and dingle and bosky bourn.
" And here's some of the ignominious, fermenting
now," I chimed in, as the car stopped short at an alley-
like street, where two teams, one a dump cart, had
interlocked their wheels, stoutly disputing the right of
way. The angry drivers, coats ofif, were shaking their
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
fists in each other's face, and exchanging defiance in a
dialect racy of Eighth street, while a ring of seedy-
looking bystanders were watching the melodrama with
infinite delight. We rode on before hostilities were
concluded, but mock wagers on the outcome were made
bv our fellow-passengers with the odds strongly
against the probability of casualties. Leaving behind
NEAR INDEPENDENCE HALL, PHILADELPHIA
the region of small shops, we scurried past solid rows
of brick houses with prim white shutters and marble
Soon, however, all these had faded in the dim dis-
tance and we were out on the Old York Road, where
the rarest of trolleying was in store for us. If William
Penn founded the Quaker city, God made its suburbs —
a fair countryside that now passed before us in dis-
22 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
solving views, as our car at quickened speed plunged
on to Willow Grove:
" Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures
As the landskip round it measures."
We trolleyed past lawns and meadows, stately villas
and trim gardens, old wayside inns and ivy-covered
churches lodged under the spreading trees; here a
classic gateway with Ionic peristyle; there an ancient
mansion half hidden behind high walls of solid
masonry; a wide stretch of green fields in the fore-
ground, a background of woodland; winding country
lanes deep in shade; and last but not least a valley
sweeping northward and disclosing in far perspective
green hills crowned w^ith a bluish haze.
There was one passenger, however, to whom the
alluring scenery was all a blank. Though the car was
far from crowded, he had deliberately seated himself
on the sunny side and pulled down the curtains near
him to blot out the view. Then unfolding his morning
paper, he remained buried in the contents of the sport-
ing page until Horseheaven came in sight. Perhaps
his attention may have been distracted by the ghostly
neigh that still echoes, as some fancy, from this his-
toric knoll, where in the days of the winding post horn
many a worn-out sorrel and bay were let loose to
browse their last.- Thoroughbred and plug. Bucephalus
and Blackberry, Horseheaven levelled all ; and to what
base uses did they not return ?
We found few excursionists at Willow Grove, for
the hour was still early. The spacious grounds, how-
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
ever, of this famous resort looked as attractive as ever;
and over them hung memories of Damrosch and Sousa.
That day Creatore and his band were advertised, so
that we were sorely tempted to tarry for the music ; but
baggage-hampered as we were, we stood hesitant before
the gates of Paradise until the sound of the clanging
gong from up the hill signalled the approach of the
OLD MILL NEAR OGONTZ
Doylestown car. I waved Nicholas at the motorman
and we clambered quickly aboard.
" This is real country," exclaimed Louisa, delight-
edly, as with heads bared to the exhilarating breeze and
ensconced comfortably amid our multitudinous coats
and grips on a front seat of the jolting four-wheeler,
we flashed along the Horshampike, past field and farm,
barn and windmill, orchard and truck patch. The
24 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
scent of clover and new mown hay was in the air.
Saba^an odors tinctured mikhy by stray whiffs from
wayside barnyards; while kine and swine, swine and
kine flew apparently across our vision with a famil-
iarity that bred contempt. Contempt, certainly on the
part of the cows, for systematically switching their
tails and chewing their introspective cuds, they
regarded us with an expression of blank indifference.
The many crumpled horns (at any rate they looked
crumpled from the bobbing flyer) spoke plainly of a
dairy country; but we glanced around in vain for
sight of " the maiden all forlorn," or of the blithe milk-
maid in French heels made familiar by opera bouft'e.
Louisa's attention, however, was attracted by a little
heifer not inappropriately creamy colored.
" You're just too lovely for anything," she called
to it. "For all the world like Evangeline's;" but
the lovely one fed voraciously and heeded her not.
Our fellow-passengers were nearly all of the rural
type. The spruce-looking excursionists from the city
that we had observed in the Willow Grove car, now
gave way to Darby and Joan or Jack and Jill. At the
roadside station waited Reuben, swathed in his linen
duster and holding stiffly a carpet bag, relic of happier
Along the highway, however, were scattered many
more substantial reminders of the past than Reuben's
rag bag. Such, indeed, were our reflections as we
pulled up in the little hamlet of Horsham, which is all
antiquity from the trolley waiting-room, " shagged
with horrid shades," to the Quaker meeting-house prim
to starchiness. Louisa's crowning delight, however,
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 25
was the frequency of old-time inns, to which despite
their shabby, if not dilapidated, conditions, the broad
verandas gave an air of hospitality essentially colonial.
On the way out of Horsham we sighted in the dis-
tance one of these ancient taverns, distinguished by a
high balcony that promised at first marked dramatic
possibilities for some rural Romeo and Juliet; but as
we came nearer, the romantic atmosphere was dispelled
by an array of gaudy yellow signs that chronicled small
beer. Though these old inns and other structures by
the wayside have a history, yet to the manifest disap-
pointment of Louisa there was a lamentable dearth of
Washington's headquarters, places that history had
scattered along other portions of our route, and notably
in New England, with reckless profusion. Did Wash-
ington blunder ?
The odd signs and names by the roadside proved a
frequent source of amusement. Near Horsham, where
the conductor jumped off to turn the lever of the
signal box, our attention was directed to a barking
cur. At first we could not understand the reason of
his emotion. He seemed to be barking doggedly, one
might say, into space without any special object in
view; but glancing again we beheld just in front of
the beast a projecting sign that announced " Snapper
and Barker." Thus a dog's bark can express the finer
shades of feeling.
It was near the same spot that my reckless kodakery
received a stinging rebuke. By the side of the trolley
track was a dingy, frame house, in the open door of
which stood a venerable negress with a red bandanna
kerchief on her head and five or six pickaninnies frisk-
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
ing about her. In an instant the snap-shot demon was
at my elbow and I levelled Killdeer at the dusky picture
of domestic life; but fancy my chagrin when Honey,
divining my intention, fled inside with all her lesser
Honeys and slammed the door in Killdeer's face. It
was not strange, therefore, that the negative, on coming
out of the developing machine a week later, should
wear a blank expression which recorded sympathet-
ically my own feelings.
Killdeer, howe^•er, soon found other game. The
hillside crofts near Doylestown and the glimpse of its
roofs and chimneys nestled among the trees made a
picture not to be forgotten. Rye and wheat fields
stood out in pleasing relief against the background of
green, while over all a summer's cloud threw shifting
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON ' 27
lights and shadows. Following the winding road, we
crossed a low stone bridge and passing an ancient mill
dashed on to the town a short distance beyond.
" Do they have ice cream in Doylestown? " queried
one anxious passenger of the conductor, when we were
climbing the hill.
" Yes — and a jail, too," was the comprehensive
retort. At the covert rebuke the man, who wanted to
know, relapsed into a masterly silence. The promi-
nence, indeed, of the jail in the geography of the town
amply justified the conductor in his Reproof Valiant.
It was the first striking object we saw when we rode
into town, and the last thing upon which we feasted
our eyes as we rode out.
Our flyer made a brief stop at the trolley crossing;
and then grappling nervously our Protean baggage we
clambered from the four-wheeler and tottered to the
Newtown car close by, while its occupants watched our
painful progress with ill-concealed merriment. We
had hardly settled ourselves, our belongings piled high
about us, before the car, a dingy, ancient-looking con-
veyance, was lumbering away towards Bristol.
Our route still lay through a prosperous farming
countrv; and in some cases the track took a short cut
through the farms themselves, where the company had
acquired the exclusive right of way. As our car splut-
tered along, it dodged a farm house here and a barn
there, while the clanging of its gong and the rattle of
its wheels more than once rudely interrupted the stately
promenade of Chanticleer and his dames. The cold
look in Chanticleer's eye told plainly enough his hos-
tility to the invading trolley.
2S A TEOLLEY HONEYMOON
As was natural, the Man with the Hoe was a com-
mon figure in the roadside scenes of Bucks, through
which we were now passing; but he bore no resem-
blance to the gaunt creation of the poet's fancy. Far
from it, for he was the very picture of health and
Our fellow-trippers, too. were generally of the same
THE JAIL, DOYLESTOWN
hardy type. Indeed, the only exceptions were two pale-
faced, smooth-shaven men, whose attire and theatrical
air cried aloud of the Eighth street Rialto. They
held gingerly between them a ludicrously large mega-
phone — an instrument that seemed strangely out of
place in the rural quietude. Louisa's curiosity was
doubled when the twain got off at a lonely crossroads
where the only sign of activity was a duck half asleep
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 29
in a stagnant pool. The last we saw of them, they were
still waiting by the roadside, clutching their burden
with grim persistency. As they lingered considerately
in the glaring sunlight, I snapped Killdeer at them,
but the shot went wide of the mark, catching only a
few tree-tops. Ever since that time, however, they have
haunted our fancy. For what are the charms that two
vaudeville " artists " with a colossal megaphone could
find in the face of Solitude ? To hold communion with
There were two others of our companions to whom,
Louisa declares, Killdeer and I owe an unqualified
apology. They were a country bumpkin and his rosy-
cheeked Thestylis — deep in a romance which had pro-
gressed far enough to sanction the interchange of
chewing gum in public. As this jugglery was suc-
cessively repeated, the lurking snap-shot demon within
me was aroused; and, hardly realizing what I did, I
raised Killdeer and gave the lever a vicious push. I
caught the gum in transit, but at what moral sacrifice.
From that fatal moment I felt myself in the relentless
grasp of a habit that respected neither time nor place;
that spared neither the sanctity of the home nor love's
young dream. I had become a kodak fiend, abhorred
by gods and men.
Even the wayside animals seemed to look upon Kill-
deer with squint-eyed suspicion. During a stop near
a paint-bleached wooden building, the village post-
office, Louisa called my attention to a fat pug dog
waddling about, an expression of utter world weari-
ness stamped upon his wide-open countenance. It took
only a second to crane my neck and seize my kodak;
30 A TEOLLEY HONEYMOON
yet before I had made the first motion, the indignant
pug divined my intention and popped suddenly around
a corner. Thus, as we learned, pifg dogs and negresses
with bandanna kerchiefs have in common an aversion
to kodakery, though what the hidden law may be that
connects the two cases, it is for the psychologist to
Our car made but few stops on the way to Newtown.
This preponderance of through traffic contributes much
to the pleasure of rural trolleying. By the same token
the lot of the rural conductor is far happier than that
of his urban brother, whose life might be called a con-
tinuous hop, skip and jump up and down a running
board. What is more, he is on a much better footing,
too, with the passengers, many of them being his neigh-
bors with whom he freely exchanges cheery, if clumsy,
compliments seasoned with enquiries about the crops.
A sign over a small store at Wycombe Park, reading
" Ice cream Parlor and Soft Drinks," bore a legend
that soon became a familiar landmark. For every-
where along the route, in town or country, by lake or
fen, near park or blasted heath, could be seen the
sticky, sinuous trail of the Ice Cream Dragon ; and by
his benignant decree any weather-beaten shack com-
modious enough to hold one plate and two spoons was
officially entitled a " parlor." These parlors, indeed,
flourish like green bay trees and apparently are under
the special protection of the goddess Indigestion, to
whom Quick Lunch Temples are sacred.
Recreation parks, also. — we were bewildered at their
frequency. Scarcely a large town we trolleyed through
that did not have its amusement grove where flaring
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 31
advertisements heralded a feast of " refined vaude-
ville," and not infrequently a flow of liquid cheer.
What was strangest, it was notably in puritan New
England where the passion for " refined vaudeville "
raged most fiercely.
Louisa had undertaken to record in her note book a
description, though necessarily brief, of the villages
along our route; but the sleepy atmosphere made the
recording angel drowsy on the way to Newtown, so that
by the time we rattled into that little Quaker village,
she was nodding " with a short, uneasy motion." Even
Homer, however, would have nodded that hot noontide.
As it was, her dazed recollections of Newtown include
a venerable peddler trundling a baby carriage filled with
peanuts through the quiet street; and (though not a
correlated fact) a large sign on a barn, as we turned a
sharp corner, that read " The Home of Altheus, Son
of Omma, the Greatest Sire Living or Dead." Penn
named the town; and over it the influence of his placid
spirit still reigns.
Not even Dickens' fat boy would have fallen asleep
in the flyer to which we now changed for Bristol. For
it was equipped with a lusty horn, the chirpy toot of
which awakened both hillsmen and dalesmen like a
blast from Robin Hood's bugle, as we rode up hill and
down. We listened to its echoes with fascinated ears;
still the wonder grew
that one small horn could carry all it blew.
Our course was now towards the Delaware. At
Langhorne the track stretched away down a vista of
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
arched trees; and crossing a trestle we caught another
view of the Neshaminy, which we had seen for the first
time on our ride to Doylestown. We were now well
out of the hills; and indeed as we neared Hulmeville,
the country became as flat as a pancake on Shrove
An exhilarating trolley ride is the best sauce. "I'm
BY THE ROADSIDE, HULMEVILLE
as hungry as a bear." confessed Louisa, on alighting
from the car at Bristol, if indeed travelers staggering
under our weight of baggage could be said to " alight."
We entered a hostelry only to be informed by the host
in a tone of reproach that dinner wasn't served after
two. Thus belated hunger hath few privileges in Bris-
tol, saving the presence of the never-failing " ice cream
parlor." One of these retreats Louisa spied, as we were
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 33
trudging up the ramblitig main street, bag and bag-
gage; and there on Bristol-made ambrosia we tried to
appease two very human appetites.
In the Httle shop we held our first council. We had
expected to cross to Burlington by ferry and take the
Jersey route to Trenton; but disquieting rumors now
reached us of the prevalence of smallpox in Borden-
town and of the enforcement of a quarantine against
all travelers passing through the plague spot, as we
should be compelled to do, if we went by way of Bur-
lington. The idea of a quarantine did not appeal to
" Fumigated, smoked like hams," she protested.
" Why, our clothes will all be ruined," she added, her
eyes as big as saucers at the threatened cataclysm.
" Perhaps, they may only spray us — that's the latest
wrinkle, I understand," I essayed to break the blow.
''' Sprayed, the idea," she returned. " Wouldn't we
be sights. A bride and bridegroom at that."
" We're sights anyway," I rejoined, pointing rue-
fully to our mountain of coats and grips that towered
from two chairs in the corner of the room. " It would
take a week to fumigate that heap."
The result of the conference was that we decided for
the west side route via Morrisville. We had hardly
seated ourselves, however, in the Morrisville car before
we began tO' doubt the wisdom of our decision. The
conveyance was a closed four-wheeler, dingy-looking'
without and stutfy within: and its occupants were
shabby and unkempt. In one corner, with his feet
planted on a soiled paper bundle that resembled Alfred
Jingle's, slouched a man in stertorous slumber.
34 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
Sprawled in front of us, a shock-headed, sullen-faced
foreigner, as we judged, was pouring over a socialistic
paper, glancing at us occasionally over the top of the
sheet. The glance became a glare when it fell upon
our generous supply of coats and plainly spoke his
belief that we had more than our share. Evidently
he did not agree with Carlyle, that a man's share of
the goods of this world is all he can carry without get-
ting into the hulks.
The river view, however, soon diverted our attention
from the socialist; and going to the rear platform I
snapped Killdeer recklessly at the Delaware, which
flowed sluggishly by, indifferent to the volley. That
indifference proved well-founded, for its best friends
couldn't have recognized it in my " moving " pictures.
It was all the sun's fault, however, which was every-
where that afternoon except where it ought to have
been. My friends had religiously impressed upon me
that I must be careful, when shooting, " not to get a
move on the kodak." This injunction seemed to me
the refinement of irony, as I clutched Killdeer in one
hand, while with the other I clung desperately to the
handrail of the platform, which was bobbing up and
down like Tracy Tupman on his balky beast of blessed
memory. For our little flyer made up in speed what
it lacked in appearance; and the plains and wayside
maples, Tullytown, Penn Valley — all flopped madly
by like a ghost at matin hour.
Morrisville we found buried in an all-pervading
stupor, ostensibly its normal condition. This little
hamlet boasts a trolley line to Trenton, which lies just
across the river. That afternoon, however, no cars
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 35
were running, though the track was still visible to the
naked eye. Dropping into a corner store, we learned
that the slender equipment of the company compelled
it to suspend operations when, as often happened, the
car needed repairing. As ill luck would have it, we had
stumbled into town on Repair Day; and consequently
no trolley was running. Indeed, the village pessimist
THE CANAL AT TRENTON
informed us that it might be a month before we could
get a car for Trenton. So long a wait hardly fell in
with our plans; and accordingly making a virtue of
necessity, off we started to tramp into Trenton over
" How odd for a wedding journey," exclaimed
Louisa, as she tripped ahead with Killdeer and Nich-
olas, while I brought up the rear with our baggage
36 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
" How delightfully historical this is — crossing the
Delaware just like Washington," she added.
'" // we ever get across," I protested, emerging from
my mass of baggage to pick up the impish umbrella,
which had taken advantage of my helplessness to drop
into the dusty roadway.
At the ticket office the burly keeper exacted a modest
penny tribute from Nicholas. Here we were overtaken
by a fellow-passenger in the Bristol car, the sleepy man
with the disreputable-looking bundle. We remembered
how on disembarking he had forgotten to take his
baggage, and indeed would have gone off without it,
had not a lusty halloa from the conductor recalled him.
We were not surprised, therefore, to hear him hailed
now by the bridge guard, who admonished him to pro-
cure a ticket before crossing. The fee paid, off the
forgetful man trudged again, when there was another
stentorian shout from the guard ; and then we saw
that the man had forgotten his shabby bundle a second
time. Smiling sheepishly, he picked up his belongings
and slouched on ; but his troubles were not at an end,
for at the Trenton end of the bridge he forgot to give
up his ticket and was roundly reprimanded by the
official at the gate. Having thrown the proper sop to
Cerberus, he passed on again, still smiling like a mem-
ber of the Sunshine Society. The last we saw of him
he was tramping wearily in the direction of the pottery
works, the suspicious-looking bundle resting loosely
under his arm, as if it were likely any moment to slide
down to the pavement. Louisa wonders whether it
ever reached its destination, if indeed it ever had any.
Trenton marked the end of our second day's trip.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 37
With becoming reverence we craned our necks before
the towering battle monument, now doubly memorable
since the Princeton students essayed to give it the color
of the shamrock; and then we recrossed the canal just
in time to catch a glimpse of the Admiral Dewey,
sweeping proudly down the " melancholy main " in
tow of a patient-looking mule. Our final pilgrimage
was to the State house, where Louisa enjoyed the
honor of sitting for one brief second in the governor's
chair — an act of usurpation that, we hope. Governor
Murphy will graciously condone.
CHAPTER III. ^
Misadventures in Jersey.
Perhaps I did wrong to speak so hastily about the
vag-aries of my umbrella. It certainly did yeoman serv-
ice that rainy morning we left Trenton for New York.
The rain was coming down in torrents when we climbed
into the open single truck that runs to the Fair
Grounds, where connection is made for New Bruns-
wick. A short dash, however, to the rain-soaked
suburbs and we found waiting the New Brunswick
express. The change to a closed coach, commodious
as a steam railway carriage, was as pleasant as it was
unexpected. The car w-as one of the regular winter
service with a forward compartment for baggage. The
conductor played many parts from ticket puncher to
baggage smasher; and when we dove into the car,
there he was cheerily polishing the brass strip on a seat
top with all the historic painstaking of Sir Joseph
Porter, K. C. B. Naturally sociable, he imparted much
pertinent, as well as entertaining, information along
the route; for all told he had but three passengers to
occupy his attention. The third fare, a hatchet-faced
woman, slept soundly during the trip, her head sagging
heavily to one side, while a black chip hat reposed sym-
pathetically on the tip of her ear.
The rain beat furiously against the window panes,
as the flyer whizzed past the swamps and sodden fields.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 39
We could easily imagine the dismal treble, precursor
of blood, that rises on an August night over these
breeding places of the Jersey man-eater. The whole
prospect, in fact, might be described as dolorous;
though in such a cloudburst even the Elysian Fields
would have looked waste and wild.
" No shooting to-day," I said disconsolately to
Louisa, as I stowed Killdeer away in a corner.
" There's fine shooting over the way, and fishing,
too," volunteered the conductor. "' Near Patrick's
Crossing," he added, indicating with a wide sweep of
his hand a black, rain-swept horizon to the right; and
his earnest expression demonstrated his firm belief that
we could make no mistake in dropping off for a day's
sport with rod and gun. Louisa turned a horrified look
on him, while I added darkly that I couldn't shoot any-
thing, unless it stood in the sunlight within the ten-
foot dead line.
When we dashed into New Brunswick, the storm
was still raging and the wind and rain were sweeping
furiously through the streets. We were compelled to
take refuge in the trolley waiting-room, through the
splotched window pane of which we peered into the
drizzle for a sight of the Bound Brook car. At last it
came trundling round a corner, its slazy rain-soaked
curtains offering but a flimsy protection from the ele-
ments. Our courage failed us.
" I wouldn't go in that tub without a life-preserver,"
insisted Louisa, looking like Niobe in her dripping
Mackintosh (assuming of course that Niobe would
have worn a weeping-proof) ; and to emphasize her
ultimatum she brandished Nicholas so violently that
A TEOLLEY HONEYMOON
he lost his head and a score of nickels were scattered in
a jingling chorus upon the floor. Life-preservers, how-
ever, were about the only necessity we had neglected
to put in our baggage equipment. As it was, there-
fore, we decided to wait over until the weather bureau
regained its mental balance and turned off the deluge.
Happily it had a lucid interval the very next morn-
A PICNIC PARTY, NEW BRUNSWICK
ing; and taking the day by the forelock we were soon
trolleying across the stone bridge over the Raritan,
glancing back at the roofs of New Brunswick on the
hill to the west of us. Above the trees by the river's
bank towered the stone arches of the new railroad
bridge. Our course wound along the river, the placid
surface of which o-httered like a mirror, while a broad
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 41
sweep of cultivated fields bounded our vision to the
right. Brindle, Sukey and Mooley, with their plead-
ing eyes, became familiar figures in the pastoral scenes;
and at their rugged architecture we began to cast the
cold, critical glances of experts, as we now deemed our-
selves to be since our trip through Bucks. To Louisa's
ears, however, the Jersey moo expressed a wider emo-
tional range and spoke a more varied language than
the neat's tongue of Bucks.
As we turned our backs on the Raritan and headed
for Bound Brook, a little comedy was enacted aboard
our car. in which we took an involuntary part. A
ruddy-cheeked man with a brisk manner and clothes
of a modish cut, who had been puffing a cigar on the
front platform, came pattering down the aisle, anx-
iously scrutinizing each seat. He eyed us with embar-
rassing keenness; nor did we get an inkling of the
dramatic situation until we heard an explosive inquiry
from the conductor : "Anybody seen this man's grip ? "
The question was followed by a general silence.
" Perhaps it's under that stack of clothing there," broke
in the red-faced, indicating our coats and wraps, which
promiscuously piled together were spread on a seat in
front of us.
" We've grips of our own without adding to the
collection," I protested firmly. " But see for yourself,"
I continued; and suiting the action to the word, I dug
strenuously into the mountain of coats, dislodging of
course in the process the troublesome umbrella, the
handle of which had hooked itself in a grip strap.
"There it is," cried the man; and sure enough,
much to my dismay, I saw the missing bag deeply
42 A TFOLLEY HONEYMOON
buried under the coats with every outward evidence of
criminal intent. The owner ignored our embarrassed
explanation, but expansive joy was pictured on his
countenance, wdien retiring to the rear platform he
hastily snapped open the bag, disclosing to the curious
gaze of the passengers a box of cigars and a bottle of
rye. A general titter went around the car as he held
the bottle up critically, as if to intimate that its con-
tents had been tampered with.
RURAL TROLLEY STATION, DUNELLEN
" I felt as if I should fly," said Louisa afterwards in
speaking of the trying moment.
" Not with all that baggage," I interposed mildly.
" A Santos Dumont or Langley couldn't have done
that." She declined, however, to reveal her secret of
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 43
When we changed cars at Bound Brook, we saw the
owner of the grip standing in front of the trolley sta-
tion, still holding the bottle with a true Kentucky
caress. The picture was vividly present in our minds,
as we rode on to Dunellen ; and for that reason doubt-
less we exercised more caution than before in stowing
away our baggage.
Though the river was now lost to view, yet by way
of compensation the green walls of the Watchung rose
in the distance across the plains. Indeed, as we trol-
leyed on, the wide reach of level fields with background
of mountains became the distinguishing feature of the
Our fellow-passengers on the Dunellen car were a
medley indeed. On the rear seats sprawled a group of
men in grimy canvas suits, and nestling at their feet
was a generous supply of picks and crowbars. Seated
among them was a lean, bewhiskered farmer, bereft of
collar and tie, who kept cracking hard-shelled jokes
with the conductor. Near us in the centre seat sat a
Tennj^sonian young lady, rapt in the Idylls of the King,
while at her elbow was a fat negress, whose watery
eyes and paroxysm of sneezing testified to the ravages
of hay fever. All the front seats, however, had been
pre-empted by a merry trolley party (the first we had
met on our trip), a group of women hatless and radiant
in white shirtwaists, who chattered vivaciously over a
hand-to-hand feast of caramels. They changed with
us into the Plainfield car at the station in the outskirts
of Dunellen village.
Nothing along the road escaped the attention of
Ihese cheery trolley trippers; and their witty comments
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
on passing scenes did much to enliven our journey to
Plainfield. At one village corner the sight of a little
tot sliding down a steep pair of steps w^ith the naive
abandon of youth and clasping affectionately a flower-
bedecked doll larger than she was, awakened general
merriment; and at another stop a tiny Maltese kitten
rolling in the sun under a window emblazoned with the
announcement of " Charlie Moon's Laundrv " amused
A NEWARK SCENE
us all with its acrobatic pranks. It was promptly
christened by the trolley party " Fudge " and " Moon-
" Fudge," however, was soon forgotten as we sped
on through Westfield and the adjoining countryside,
which was now unrolled before us in a panorama of
We met with a brief delav in Elizabeth, where a
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 45
chauffeurless automobile running wild cat effectually
blocked our passage. I took advantage of the stop to
snap at the first object within range, which proved to
be a butcher boy on his wagon. In an instant, how-
ever, the lad, scenting danger, popped out of his seat
with monkey-like agility, wdiile I heard a muffled
expression in a tone vibrant with feeling, " Never
touched me; " but before he had slipped to the ground,
Killdeer snapped him ruthlessly in the back. This
monkey-like boy was the only evidence we saw of over-
developed activity in Elizabeth's streets.
As we continued our journey, the character of way-
side scenes rapidly changed; and by the time we had
trundled into Newark, the transformation was com-
plete. In its broad streets and bustling trolley centre
were many signs of our proximity to the metropolis,
the sky scrapers of which were only ten miles away.
The calm deliberation of rural trolleying now began to
give way to the speed and rush mania. We caught at
once the infectious spirit.
" Hurry, if you want to get that car," suddenly
exclaimed Louisa, as we stood in the midst of a crowd
on the curb.
" Hurry," I repeated, as the mad joy of battle began
to thrill my nerves. Juggling our baggage in both
arms, we dove through the throng and tore along the
trolley track to hail a car for Jersey City that had
already passed us. I dodged just in time a woman of
Falstaffian girth who waddled directly across my path ;
then more juggling and sprinting in the blazing sun
and victory was ours. Hardly, however, had we seated
ourselves before I discovered that during the pursuit
46 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
my umbrella had slyly dropped into the street. You
may be sure that we wasted no tears over the loss;
but I am sorry for the unsuspecting Newarker (unless
it was the fat woman), who found the little imp and
introduced it doubtless into some happy home.
A short ride through the outskirts of the city brought
us to the turnpike. The blocks of factory buildings and
a skv-line rich in chimnev stacks and streaked with
NEAR JERSEY CITY
black smoke, attested Newark's remarkable industrial
growth. We followed the turnpike to Jersey City — a
jumbled association of marshy fiats and inlets; dense
jungles of railroad tracks; unspeakable fertilizing
plants; and last a dash through unsightly suburbs. It
was only a little after one when we turned into the
car barn hard by the ferry house. Hardly a minute
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 47
later we were pushing and elbowing our way through
a motley rabble of swarthy-faced immigrants, who
stood in helpless stupidity around the train gates. The
men were loaded with shovels and pickaxes, while
almost every woman in the horde carried a baby in her
arms. We broke through the jabbering throng and
catching the prevailing spirit of desperate hurry we
scurried towards the Twenty-third street slip.
As the ferry-boat churned its way up the North
river, we looked expectantly for a new assortment of
dents in the rugged sky-line of the city, where in
bewildering irregularity the sky-scrapers reared their
awful forms. Nor did we look in vain, for New York
is ever rising Phoenix-like (a modern up-to-date
Phoenix, of course) from the ashes and scrap-iron of
its demolished structures. It is not the same city one
saw but a few weeks ago. Yet never before had the
tearing-up mania seemed so acute and widespread as
it did that afternoon, when we plunged into town from
the trolley trip through bucolic Jersey. Many old land-
marks were gone; here a skyscraper had been pulled
down to make way for another skyscraper of double
the height; there in upper Broadway were abyssmal
excavations marking the progress of the subway; and
opposite many new holes in the building line huge
piles of steel girders were lying along the curb.
In spite, however, of the law of restless change that
marks " the metrolopus," two things, so it seemed to
us, are always omnipresent — the saturnalia of noise
and the odor of escaping gas. The latter Louisa
detected at once with a disapproving sniff. For the
taste is strictly an acquired one, though to the old New
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
Yorker a whiff of leaking gas (as one can readily
understand) is like a puff from Araby the Blest, asso-
ciated as it is with his most enduring memories of the
The intensity of life in New York imbues with
something of its spirit even the sight-seeing stranger
within its gates; and the tourist service of coach,
yacht and automobile that is now one of the spectacu-
FIFTH AVENUE IN SUMMER
lar features of the city, may be regarded as another
tribute to the metropolitan rush mania.
The story of the American traveler, who. bursting
breathlessly into St. Marks, breezily bade the guide
show him " the whole outfit in five minutes," finds a
counterpart in the wish of a hurricane tourist we met
on Riverside Drive. While the electric 'bus was wait-
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
ing in front of Grant's Tomb, a bustling woman, guide-
book in liand, flew down the long steps and signalled
the chauffeur for a parley. In a tone that took us all
into her confidence, she made known her wish for a
ride down Riverside, a dash through Central Park, a
scurry up the whole length of Fifth avenue and back
again (with a hasty peep, of course, into the Cathedral
and the Little Church Around the Corner), and last
but not least a hurry-up pilgrimage down the tangled
woodland of the Bowery — all this to be done in half
an hour, for she must, she insisted (the emphasis on
the must was eloquence itself) catch the five o'clock
boat for Coney Island. Nor could anyone convince
her that her plan contemplated a ride wilder than John
Gilpin's; and when we rode away, she was searching
50 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
for another chauffeur to whom to broach her cyclonic
Early as it was in the summer season, we found
tourists everywhere; around the wind-blown Flat Iron,
amid the venerable grave-stones of Trinity church
yard, in the maelstrom at Brooklyn bridge, peering into
the subway at Longacre, and shot from the helter-
skelter at Luna Park.
CATHEDRAL HEIGHTS, MANHATTAN
As the time drew near to continue our trip, we dis-
cussed in the baleful light of experience the pressing
necessity of reducing our baggage list. This course
was hurried, also, by a humiliating adventure. For as
I was tramping along Twenty-third street, staggering
under my burden of superfluous coats, I had been
approached by a policeman, who in a Manhattanized
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 51
brogue had questioned me solicitously about my owner-
ship of the chattels. Though I succeeded in quieting
his suspicions, yet the sting of mortification had
Our travelling equipment, as finally settled upon,
comprised the following :
I. Two grips (i2x6).
IL Two medium -weight coats (with Nicholas
and divers guide-books in the pockets.)
in. Killdeer and ammunition.
IV. Positively no umbrella.
All other baggage was forwarded by express to the
transfer point where we had planned to break our
A Swarm of Excursionists.
It was Fat Woman's Day when we trolleyecl out of
Manhattan Borough. At Elarlem River the picnic face
and the lunch-box were early abroad; and under the
L tracks at One Hundred and Twentv-ninth street we
BRIDGE AT HARLEM RIVER
encountered a horde of trolley excursionists with Teu-
tonic faces and aggressively American feet and elbows.
As the Mount Vernon car swung around the loop,
Louisa and I flung ourselves into the whirlwind; and
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 53
when our struggle was over, we found ourselves
wedged in on a front seat amid a press of fat women
and chattering angel children.
As we rode over the drawbridge and on through the
Bronx, more fat women and more angel babies crowded
into the car at every stop. At the last invasion a
dumpy, little German woman, holding in ludicrous
contrast a huge picnic hamper, cried out in protest,
" There bees no room for dose in alretty " — a senti-
ment that paradoxical though it was, we echoed heart-
ily. Through the profusion of fatling hands and toy
tin pails that surrounded me, I trained Killdeer upon
wayside " subjects." though necessarily at weird angles
and grotesque focus. Once the side rail of the car
mocked my snap at Fordham; and soon "afterwards,
when I had just coaxed a Williamsbridge scene within
the ten-foot line, the inquisitive fist of a cherubic baby
planted itself squarely in the kodak's only eye.
Even under such unfavorable conditions we could
see abundant evidence of the Bronx's rapid growth.
Here, indeed, is a strange medley of city and country.
The deafening roar of Manhattan's streets dies away
in the rural calm of the upper Bronx — a calm, how-
ever, that just precedes the coming storm of improve-
ment. A few months more and in yon field, where
Reuben is bending over to stay the ravages of the
potato bug, a brick flat with conspicuous fire escape,
or perhaps a corner saloon with flamboyant sign, will
proclaim itself the pioneer of metropolitan progress.
As we neared the station at Mount Vernon (just
beyond the city limits) we saw a surging sea of arms
and faces. Louisa's first thought was that a riot was
54 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
in progress or a fashionable wedding with the con-
ventional mob of curiosity seekers; but in another
moment we grasped the situation ( or rather zuere
grasped by the situation) when our car pulled up in
the thick of a struggling mass of excursionists. As
it proved, they were making a concerted rush for the
New Rochelle trolley with which the car from New
York connected. Indeed, hardly had our crowded
Juggernaut stopped, before our fellow—passengers, led
by the frait of the mammoth picnic basket, boldly pre-
cipitated themselves into the struggle. Their example
was contagious and at once there arose within me a
barbaric desire to mingle in the fray and trample my
fellow-men in the dust. We joined in the rush, only
to be caught in the counter currents of elbows and
lunch boxes; and then Mount Vernon grew giddy
before our eyes.
I rescued Louisa at last, and from the vantage- point
of the trolley waiting-room we watched the scene with
anxious interest. The rush had diminished a little;
but along a labyrinth of overhead wires shouting
motormen were hurriedly shifting their poles, charg-
ing down alike upon the just and unjust.
" I'm no dog," vociferated a tall, thin man, white
with rage at being ordered about like a Siberian
"Well, what do you want?" sneered Ivan the
Trolley Terrible; and the challenging look on the
burly motorman's face indicated his personal prefer-
ence for fisticuffs.
The chance of getting even standing room in the
New Rochelle car seemed so remote that we debated
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 55
the suggestion of going by steam cars as far as Port-
chester. For every time the httle four-wheeler shot in
sight, men, women and children made an onslaught
that crowded it from platform to platform, while the
number of waiting excursionists was augmented with
the arrival of every car from the Harlem. Never was
the law of demand and supply more grossly insulted.
After an hour's delay, however, fortune favored us.
We were crossing the square towards the railroad sta-
tion, when Louisa's sharp eyes spied two vacant seats
in a Juggernaut that was just about to start. With
desperate haste we flung ourselves aboard. Pinned in
though we were among the baskets and boxes of a Glen
Island picnic party, we breathed a sigh of relief as the
signal was given and the little bobtail speedily made
a sharp turn to the left, heading New Rochelleward.
Hardly, however, had we come out on the Old Post
Road before a horrible suspicion flamed up in Louisa's
mind that we were going in the wrong direction.
" Is this the New Rochelle car? " I asked anxiously
of the conductor, while I began to shake out two fares
from the long head of Nicholas.
" 'Tain't my fault," snarled back the tyrant, clutch-
ing the coins in his money-stained palm ; and up went
his hand savagely to the indicator cord. Thus, with-
out waiting to investigate, he had diagnosed my ques-
tion as a complaint — such was the force of habit. It
chanced that I was holding Killdeer in one hand and
before the man had let go the cord I snapped the kodak
unconsciously at him. The developed film, however,
afterwards revealed nothing but a fist, huge, shadowy,
protruding mysteriously into space.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
Nevertheless the sight of Killdeer brought a civil
answer to the conductor's tongue; and the next time I
interrogated him he promptly relieved my doubts about
the destination of the car.
It is fair to say, however, that " 'Tain't my fault "
was the only insolent conductor we met in all the five
hundred miles of our trip; and even for him Louisa
makes the extenuating plea that daily contact with the
picnic mobs of Mount Vernon would have worn the
patience of Job himself.
Twenty minutes of trolleying brought us into the
prim little city of New Rochelle, where we made
Through its brick-paved highways we made only a
hurried pilgrimage; and though Louisa took good
care to impress upon my mind the Huguenot origin
of the place, we saw no outward signs of it, except
perhaps the words " French Boarding House " painted
upon a large plank in front of an imposing colonial
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 57
The sun had come out broihng hot, so that we were
heartily glad to be seated once more in an open trolley
car and to go scudding along in the teeth of the speed-
generated breeze. We were still attended, however,
by knots of excursionists, most of them bound for
nearby beaches along the Sound.
While we were speeding through Mamaroneck and
Rye, Louisa was deep in the guide-books, and fre-
quently reminded me that we were now on historic
ground. For up these Westchester hills marched the
valiant Howe, and then marched down again — " nobly
done and wisely, too." To us, however, no red coats
were visible save the toiling golfer; no note of destruc-
tion audible save the chauffeur's horn.
Historical associations deepen as one crosses the
State line and trolleys along the Connecticut shore.
Near Greenwich I had urged Louisa to keep a sharp
lookout for the rock where General Putnam, when pur-
sued by the redcoats, made the dare-devil leap
recounted in history.
" That looks like it," burst suddenly from her lips,
while she indicated vaguely a steep ledge with a dra-
matic flourish of her guide-book.
"Where? Where?" I asked excitedly. "I must
get a good picture of that." Then steadying myself
against the side rail of the rocking car, I prepared to
take aim with all the impressive deliberation of a pro-
fessional doing time-exposure.
"Mommer! Mommer! " cried a thin, piping voice
behind me. " Look at that funny, little man. He's
taking pictures with a great big pencil."
Glancing down, I realized to my chagrin that absent-
58 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
mindedly I had poised in my hand not Ivilldeer, but
the long, green back of Nicholas Nickleby. There was
a sudden lurch of the flyer; and like a flash (he had
been waiting for the chance) old Nick shot from my
hand and lodged in the road near the track. A hasty
signal to stop; and scrambling out of our seats we
trudged back to recover our lost treasure, while the
car whizzed on to Old Ledge Road. Our journey thus
unexpectedly broken. \\e decided not to take the next
car on, but stroll leisurely back to Indian Harbor, a
sightly bay filled with fishing craft, where the east-
bound trolley tripper catches his first glimpse of the
Indeed, the whole countryside from Greenwich on,
with its attractive villas set among tidy lawns and
statelv trees, is one to be remembered. Smart traps
and puffy automobiles became frequent objects on the
road. One touring car flew gleefully past us to the
challenging notes of the automatic horn, only to be
overtaken in a crippled condition when we resumed
our journey not long afterwards. As we saw the
begoggled chauffeur down on his hands and knees,
peering anxiously into the machine's " midst," we
reflected that he travels the fastest — who gets to his
It w^s concert night when we rode into Stamford
Center. The main street was alive with chattering
promenaders, while from the bandstand in the spacious
square the strains of "Another New Coon in Town "
hailed our belated advent. As we alighted from the
car, it seemed to us as if all Stamford were afoot.
Threading our way through the press, however, as best
A TROLLEY IIONEYMOOX
we could, we enquired for a hotel; but in the minds of
all we interrogated, there seemed to lurk the gravest
doubts about the identity of the best one. Accordingly,
we had to trust to outside appearance; and, as was to
be expected, Louisa chose the hostelry with colonial
pillars. Nor did we have reason to regret our choice,
though we could not convince our host that we were
in earnest about trolleying all the way to Maine.
Indeed, he blandly suggested that we could save time
by taking the steam railroad; and when we met his
objection by insisting that we were not in a hurry,
he was utterly unable to recognize our un-American
point of view. Louisa is sure he had doubts of our
sanity; and I remember now how he cast a look of
deep suspicion at Old Nick.
On the Connecticut Shore.
"A shady road with a grassy track;
A car that follows free ;
A Summer's scene at early morn;
A nickel for a fee."
Such seemed to be the song of the whizzing wheels, as
leaving in the dim distance the stone bridge that spans
the Noroton at Stamford line, we sped onward along
the Connecticut s]iore. Although in the crowded cities
the day was recorded as the hottest of the season, the
rate of speed at which we were tearing along, fanned
the air into a mild simoom, tempering the heat to a
refreshing coolness; while our course swerving grad-
ually from the Old Post Road, we caught the off-shore
breeze from Roton Point, which pushes its snub nose
well out into the broad waters of the Sound. The
grass track, laid under an archway of trees, banished
the plague of dust; and no picnic hordes, as on the
dav before, lay in ambush along the route to invade
our peace and comfort.
At Roton Point we inhaled our first pufif of undiluted
salt air, for here the trolley runs to the water's edge.
As we looked across the blue surface of the Sound,
it was a natural delusion to fancy we saw Father Nep-
tune raising his placid head above the depths and nod-
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 61
ding the sharp, tip of his trideijt, as if bidding us rest
a while by his domains. So pointed an invitation we
could not politely decline, even on the score of a previ-
ous eneaeement; and accordinglv, while our car
BREATHING THE GERMS OF LAZINESS
retraced its rapid course to the Post Road, we lingered
at the Point.
" The air was calm and on the level brine
Sleek Panope with all her sisters played."
quoted Louisa. There are two things that move her
to quotation, the moonlight and the sea shore.
" Panope," I repeated, having but a dim idea of the
identity of the lady. " If there are any distinguished
visitors here," I went on, taking up Killdeer, " let me
62 A Th'OLLEY H0XEY3J00N
Louisa, however, relapsed into silence and seemed to
be scanning the water intently, perhaps for a glimpse
of the latest thing out in sea serpents.
There was little, in fact, to disturb one's day dream.
Now and then a naphtha launch puffed saucily across
our vision, or far in the offing a sail crept slowly along.
" How delightfully lazy here." drawled Louisa at
last, coming out of her reverie.
" Laziness, you know, is a disease — that's the latest
theory," I returned. " Some German wonder has bot-
tled up a few of the specimen germs."
"The germs are delicious anyway," she rejoined;
and indeed we both continued to breathe in the sea
air until our throats were almost scarified w^ith hook-
shaped microbes and we were positively ashamed to
look the innocent, little creatures in the face. At last,
germ-sated, we sauntered back to the station, where we
leisurely boarded the Norwalk trolley.
The trolley service, however, was not affected by
the germs of laziness and we made good time towards
our destination. High noon found us standing on a
street corner of Norwalk town (Norwalk, like all Gaul,
is divided into three parts) in the shadow of a store
window, lying in wait for the Westport trolley. The
town was steeped in the drowsiness of Sleepy Hollow ;
in the heat of midday few pedestrians were abroad.
Even the urchins lounging on the corner looked list-
less and wilted. Across the way was a narrow bridge,
from beyond the iron railing of which a tall mast rose
here and there. Louisa has a weakness for old bridges;
and at this one, therefore, and the shipping in the back-
ground I tried some random shots. As ill-luck would
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 63
have it, however, a one-horse " shay," that looked Hke
the one in which Washington rode on his historic visit
to the town, projected itself into the view, while a
gaudily-painted lunch-w'agon nearby with red glass
windows threw^ its baleful influence over the scene.
Even a Westport car comes to him who w^aits; and
doubly welcome to our trained ears was the Wagnerian
rattle of its wheels, for the sound meant a speedy deliv-
erance from the glaring noon-dav heat on Norwalk
FROM NORWALK BRIDGE
corner. Though the countryside, through which w^e
now trolleyed, was hardly as attractive as that near
Stamford, yet the landscape was by no means lacking
in " subjects."
One of these, indeed, I long had occasion to remem-
ber. For while w'e were rumbling over the long bridge
into Westport, I tried to take a snap through the cha-
64 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
otic mass of poles and cross-beams which went whirl-
ing by us. To get a clearer field of view, I was lean-
ing far over the side rail, when suddenly there loomed
up right in front of me the legend, painted in large,
black letters on a white background, '* Lay Hold on
Eternal Life; " and I drew back in the nick of time to
dodge a huge trolley pole.
" Pretty close shave," I heard a 'passenger remark.
" That camera fiend will get' his neck broke if he isn't
more careful; " while a chorus of " Rubber'' from a
trio of small boys on a rear seat contributed to compro-
mise my professional dignity. After that experience
I never encouraged any familiarity on the part of trol-
Hardly had we crossed the bridge before the motor-
man turned off the current with a sudden jerk that
almost threw us from our seats. " Hay wagon on the
track," was the laconic and joyous comment of one of
the small boys, as the curiosity seekers scrambled out
to investigate the phenomenon. Following the others,
I saw a group in shirt-sleeves, trying to pry up the
broken wheel of a wagon, while the track was littered
with hay three feet deep. They were toiling away in
the broiling sun when we left the scene. For a car
had been despatched from Southport to take the pas-
sengers on to that town.
Majestic old elms arching the highways give to trol-
leying along the Connecticut shore a charm that is all
its own. Of these trees none are statelier than those
that stand like giants, guarding the main street of
As we trolleyed through this historic town, Louisa
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 65
dove again into the guide-books, only to come up drip-
ping with revolutionary lore.
" What a delightful old town," she exclaimed, glow-
ing with enthusiasm. " I just dote on these colonial
houses," she added. " Just fancy, there's one famous
old house here that has .^^"^3; closets in it."
"And a skeleton in every closet, no doubt," broke in
a fellow-passenger, who had courteously pointed out
to us many historical landmarks en route.
"They say there's a lot of buried treasure in Fair-
field," Louisa went on.
" I wonder if Morgan and Rockefeller know about
it," rejoined our cynical companion.
Our conversation shifted to the old stocks and pil-
lory, which stood in Puritan days on the very green-
sward we were whizzing past.
" We ought to have pillories nowadays," the cynic
was moved to say, as he peered through his spectacles
at the historic spot. " They would be just the place,"
he added, " to hold those automobile fiends."
He had intended, I suspect, to add camera fiends to
his pillory list ; but at sight of Killdeer he suddenly
In a few minutes, however, Fairfield green was only
a memory and we were speeding on our way to Bridge-
port. The name " Barnum Avenufe " on a sign post
apprised us that we were in the city of the great show-
man. Our thoughts went back to the cherry-colored
cat of blessed memory and to the sacred white elephant,
at whose shrine the public had worshipped until it
transpired that the sanctity of the beast had been
imparted to it by Barnum's paint-brush.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
" O, look at that statue there," exclaimed Louisa
as we passed Barnum Avenue. Following her gesture,
I saw an iron figure standing in the center of a large
garden, its right hand raised expectantly towards us;
and almost automatically in response I shook old Nick
to bring out a nickel. Such is the tyranny of habit
developed on a long trolley trip when the conductor
with his insatiate demand is ever at vour elbow.
THE UNEXPECTED HAPPENS
It had never occurred to us in the wildest flight of
fancv that two trolley trippers on a honeymoon would
be mistaken for fugitives from justice; yet such was
our apparent experience at a hotel in Bridgeport. The
clerk bored me through with a suspicious glare; and
when I checked our baggage, I noticed the same
dubious look. Both porter and bellboy kept their eyes
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
glued to the kodak — for I had dechned to have it
checked with the other portables — and indeed followed
our movements with lynx-eyed vigilance. To add to
the mystery of the situation, the clerk informed me in a
confidential tone that a tall, important-looking stranger
with an official air had been at the hotel the day before,
making anxious inquiries about us and hinting darkly
at a secret, thous^h urp-ent mission. On reflection we
A F.A.IRFIELD CHURCH
decided that it must be a case of mistaken identity, and
that the mysterious stranger was an officer on some
fugitive's trail. With that we dismissed the subject.
The sun's rays beat down mercilessly upon us, as we
stood on the bridge near the steamboat landing, looking
anxiously for the New Haven trolley. Suddenly a car
hove in sight and came thundering across the bridge
68 A TROLLEY HOXEYMOON
towards the waiting throng. In the precipitate stam-
pede for seats that ensued, we joined with a fury and
professional agihty that had now become second
nature, and following in the wake of a supple, little
man who showed himself a clever strategist, we dove
into the car from the off side, even before the guard
rail had been shifted or the stepping board adjusted.
Thus it is that trolley communications corrupt good
manners. Be that as it may, our hysterical struggle
bore fruit, and we settled back comfortably into two
choice seats in motorman's row, conjuring up bright
visions, as the car started, of the ride to New Haven
along the shore.
At the Stratford end of the bridge 1 shook a fare
out of Nick into the conductor's hand.
" You're on the wrong car," he shouted in sten-
torian tones, when he learned our destination. There
was an impatient pull at the cord; the flyer stopped,
and off we were bundled ignominiously from our " box
seats," while the other passengers, some of whom
remembered our frantic struggle for seats, broke out
into an exasperating titter.
" I don't see anything to laugh about," Louisa con-
fided to me with much earnestness, as juggling once
more our coats and grips we began the tramp back in
the sizzling heat to the point we had started from. Our
discomfiture was complete when we heard two pass-
ersby remark, after a quizzical glance at us, " I guess
they're stranded actors walking back to New York.
Why don't they take a hand car ? "
Time and trnlleying, however, soothe all disappoint-
ments. A half hour's delav — and our misadventure
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
was forgotten in the pleasure of the ride to New
Haven. The snatch of scenery along the Housatonic;
trim village greens and old homesteads set among
towering elms and maples; now a glimpse of field and
woodland, now a far-sweeping view of the Sound;
here the sight of gypsy camps in the roadside woods,
there of tents pitched on the beach — all united to make
two hours of ideal trolley tripping. Yet our route was
BY THE ROADSIDE, STRATFORD
a meandering one
and as our car fairly flew along,
the sudden twists and turns around Milford green
cheated Killdeer out of many a choice shot.
There had been a strike of conductors and motor-
men on the New Haven and Bridgeport line; and its
echoes were still audible when we reached Woodmont,
a summer colony on the Sound. For here the union
70 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
men from New Haven unfeelingly refused to take our
flyer into the city. In fact, it took over half an hour
to appease the dignity of labor and set the wheels
revolving again. Even then we were gnawed by a
secret fear that perhaps the conductor had neglected to
put the union blue label on the electric current.
During our enforced stay at the little station the
passengers found amusement in the buffoonery of two
Italian peanut venders, father and son, whose jokes
and grimaces, as they recklessly disparaged each other's
wares, were as diverting as a play.
Indeed, Woodmont proved to be a ]jlace of amusing
surprises. Near the trolley track was a goat, tied to a
revolving pole, who gazed at us with a melancholy air.
The humiliation of captivity had broken his once proud
spirit, and in truth as William the Beard Blown stood
there, his hopes tantalized by an indigestible assort-
ment of cans and paper-bags, the aftermath of some
picnic that lay just beyond the limits of his tether, he
looked for all the world like patience on a monument.
When our car got under way again, it shot along
like a cannon-ball express, our course following the
shore closely. At Savin Rock the allurements of a
baseball game, together with a medley of other attrac-
tions from a " shore dinner " to the never-failing
announcement of " refined vaudeville," had assembled
a small army of pleasure seekers. As we pulled up at
the station and saw the crowd of excursionists, memo-
ries of Mount Vernon rose vividly before us and we
prepared for a stampede. Fortunately, however, it was
still early in the afternoon and we passed through
unmolested, turnine northward in the direction of New
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
Haven. Black clouds were gathering in the north;
and when we alighted from the flyer at Yale Green,
the rain-drops began to patter down — the prelude to
a violent showier.
NEW HAVEN GREEN
A Mysterious Pursuit.
Over the Yale campus hung the sepulchral silence of
vacation time. At night only the note of the baffled
mosquito broke the solitude of the quadrangle; and in
the Stygian darkness the blank walls of Skull and
Bones seemed wrapped in a deeper mystery than ever.
Even Vanderbilt Hall loomed up dark and forbidding
in the gloom.
Doubtless it would have done two victims of trolley
fever no harm (as such we were) to have lingered
longer in Yale's reposeful shades, forgetting for a
while how to " Step lively " and " Move up front; "
but the trolley germ, like all others, must run its course,
and the next morning accordingly we continued our
At New Haven we learned that the break in the trol-
ley line near Cheshire had not been filled in and that a
change in our plans, therefore, would be rendered nec-
essary. In this emergency we were advised to take the
steam cars to Wallingford and trolley on from there.
" Why. the idea. That would be disloyal in a trol-
ley tripper," demurred Louisa at first. " We'd better
walk it." Yet the memory of that "4iike'/ across
Stratford bridge counselled prudence, and we decided
therefore on the Wallingford roufe.
That half hour's ride in a stufTy steam car, with its
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 73
plague of smoke and cinders and annoying attentions
of the news demon, confirmed us in our belief that
trolleying is much pleasanter than " railroading " — at
least on a hot summer day. When the brakeman yelled
" Wallingford," we fled incontinently from the train,
eager to enjoy once more the forced breeze from the
front seat of a trolley flyer.
Enquiring at the station about the car to Meriden,
we were directed to a quiet corner across a tangle of
railroad tracks ; and thither we made a bee line, dodg-
ing just in time a freight train, which was being
shunted back and forth on the crossing. " Hurry up ! "
shouted Louisa, who as usual led the van. Running
amuck, I caught up with her just in time to learn that
it was half an hour before the next car would leave.
Louisa, who has a weakness for statistics, has cal-
culated that out of the eleven days required to make
our trip, we spent at least one day in posing on unap-
preciative street corners and peering wistfully into
space for sight of belated Juggernauts. Though we
tried to persuade ourselves that these frequent breaks
in our journey were blessings in disguise, yet there
were occasions when the disguise seemed almost impen--
etrable. So it was in the dreary blankness of that
A\^allingford corner. The most taking object that met
our eyes was a long house on wheels in a nearby lot
having emblazoned upon it the inscription " Klon-
dyke Traveling Art Gallery." As it was stuck fast in
the mud, " Traveling " seemed a misnomer, while
" Klondyke " must have been inspired by the same god-
dess of incongruity, who presides over hotel names.
^^■hat's in a name, we reflected. Was there not once a
A rh'OLLEY HONEYMOON
" Holy Roman Empire " that yet was neither Holy,
Roman, nor an Empire?
When the Meriden trolley came rumbling down the
road, it proved to be an old-time four-wheeler. Yet,
as we found, it made much better time than its sedate
and venerable appearance promised. The trip Aleriden-
ward was not fruitful in incident. Indeed, the most
diverting- episode cii route was afforded by a cow tak-
ing a mud bath, and the most notable wavside objects
were a straggling assortment of scarecrows — dubious
booty even for a wandering hobo.
Our view of the Silver Plate City (as Meriden is
styled from one of its chief industries) was necessar-
ily brief. In fact, we hardly had time to say " Hail
Britannia " before we were whisked into the connecting
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 75
car and were speeding out of the liroad main square
towards the city Hue. In our hurried survey, however,
we caught sight of one ludicrous figure in Meriden's
square that we shall not soon forget. A small man,
his head crowned with a tiny skull cap, was passing
along at a mincing gait, twirling in one hand a fan
and holding- in the other an open umbrella of family
dimensions. Over one arm. also, was swung a long-
storm coat, making a grotesque contrast to the airy
and brilliant shirt-waist that formed a striking- part of
his remarkable get-up. " He's the official crazy man
of the city," explained the conductor to us in a burst of
confidence; and appearances certainly indicated that
the man was mad, at least nor-nor west.
On reaching the city line we found the outskirts of
Meriden bedraggled in mud and mire. We stopped
near a narrow bridge where gaping ruts over a foot
deep were visible in the highway.
" They are going to repair the road," volunteered
the conductor apologetically to one of the passengers.
'' Rood," snififed a bilious-looking man. " I thought
the government was trying to dredge out a canal here,"
and we echoed his sentiments, while we floundered
through the slough of despond to the Lazy Lane car,
a stone shot off.
In front of us was an eight-wheeler, the two rear
seats of which were piled high with milk cans, while
a stalwart, red-faced man was busily engaged in dis-
charging the contents of his wagon into the adjoining
seat. After the rattle and clatter were over, we jumped
aboard and the conductor signaled to start. Hardly,
however, had he pulled at the cord before a sharp,
76 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
ringing cry was heard and looking around we beheld
a tall, dignified man making signs of recognition.
" Wait. Hold the car," he bellowed, waving excit-
edly a long, white package of papers. " There's a
party aboard I want to see," he shouted again; and
the look of grim determination on his face indicated
business of pressing importance. The car pulled up;
and with eyes fixed on me the stranger made straight
for our seat. Louisa's heart was in her mouth, for
the thought flashed through her mind that the man was
the officer who had made enquiries about us at the hotel
in Bridgeport. His appearance tallied exactly with
that of the mysterious stranger; and we now recalled
how our experience in Bridgeport had been repeated at
the New Haven hotel, where the bellboys exchanged
suspicious glances over our baggage, though why we
could not then fathom. " Perhaps they take us for the
missing Humberts," Louisa had laughingly suggested,
though I was still inclined to lay all blame upon our
excess of luggage which might not unnaturally raise
a presumption of ill-gotten gains.
Hopping quickly up the running board, the stranger
planted himself beside us. Then, as the car shot ahead
he made known in his breezy, masterful style the pur-
pose of his intrusion. He blandly hoped we would
pardon the interruption ; but he had heard we were on
a honeymoon and after tendering some ponderous con-
gratulations declared he had a matter of the utmost
importance to lay before us, for which purpose he
would like to have a little confidential talk with me.
I winced at this, for the recollection was still painful
of my last " confidential talk." It had been with a man
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 11
" on the inside " (I wish he'd staid there), who advised
me to buy on the " breaks " and sell on the " bulges " —
with the result that I got the " bulges " and " breaks "
as hopelessly mixed as were Little Buttercup's found-
lings; and I dropped accordingly on the wrong side
of the market.
It was on the tip of my tongue to ask the man how
he had learned so much about us, when he smartly
tapped the package he clutched in one hand and
exclaimed : " Just run your eye over that." Louisa
turned pale, expecting every moment to hear the man
say: "I have an unpleasant duty to perform" — the
conventional method of making an arrest, as she had
gathered from long novel reading. With visions of a
county jail yawning for me, I glanced over one of the
pages he had thrust before my nose and read the words,
" Twenty-year Endowment Accumulation Policy,"
while underneath the title was a blinding array of
numerals. " Figures don't lie, you know," he broke
out, pulling at his stubby, black mustache. " That is
just the sort of policy you want."
For my part, I had no such idea of such a want ; but
the stranger's very audacity compelled attention, if not
belief. A man in Wilmington, he explained, had put
him on my trail; and then recognizing that I was the
victim of a practical joke I commented bitterly on the
diseased sense of humor that sometimes seizes on one's
friends. Still I realized that nothing short of a head-
on collision would tear the voluble agent from my side;
and I submitted, therefore, with the best grace possible,
while he launched into a long exposition about the sol-
emn duty of my providing for my family. Louisa,
78 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
however, was greatly relieved. At any rate, the stran-
ger was not a sheriff; and getting insured under
duress was better than going to jail — that was her
point of view.
Meanwhile our car was whizzing on to Lazy Lane
and a panorama was unrolled before our eyes that drew
frequent exclamations of delight from Louisa. My
attention, however, was distracted from the scenery by
my persecutor, whose organs of speech seemed specially
constructed to expound the merits of his " Twenty-
year Accumulation Policy." To the right loomed up
in bold relief the rugged outlines of High Peak, while
the trim arbors and broad acres of Hubbard Park made
another goodly sight. Passing the park, we had on
both sides of the road a sweeping view of rolling coun-
try, stretching far away in the sunlight to the blue
My persecutor was still unbottling his statistics,
when we dashed through the shady main street of
Southington, the clangor of the gong breaking in
rudely upon the calm of that languorous, country town.
The sky had suddenly become obscured with lowering
clouds, and even my affliction stopped talking long
enough to remark the probability of a heavy shower.
For nearly two weeks, we were told, violent rains had
occurred almost daily in the valley; and we were not
surprised, therefore, when our motorman, weatherwise,
put on his long rubber coat, as we left the Southington
station. As the clouds grew darker, there came back
to our minds the ominous prediction of our anxious
friends at home about our fate in thunder storms.
The rain was beginning to fall when our flyer pulled
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 79
up at Lazy Lane. This trolley junction is made up of
a triang-ular track and a small weather-beaten shanty,
through the entrance of which we saw a venerable man
sprawling drowsily by the side of a popcorn stand.
In this retreat we found shelter until the Plainville car
came along, into which we made a dash more cyclonic
than dignified. Rain apparently had damped the ardor
of the importunate agent, who did not attempt to fol-
MEMORIAL ARCH, HARTFORD
low us; but as we were running along, between the
drops, we heard his cheery warning that he hoped to
see me again " in the near future." I made no return
to his sally, but I fully believed that having once
shaken off the burr I could safely take my chances of
the " near future."
The name " Lazy Lane " tantalized Louisa's curi-
80 A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON
osit}'; but we found its origin involved in the deep
obscurity of myth and legend. Our conductor, his
moral sense doubtless blistered by hearing the oft-
repeated question by travelers, offered the explanation
that many years ago the authorities began cutting a
road through this section, but for some reason not
specified the work lagged along and was never com-
pleted. The result was that popular fancy transferred
the sloth of the authorities to the half-completed road,
or lane, which accordingly received its present name.
After we left Plainville, our course veered sharply
to the east, and we ran out of the storm long before we
reached the suburbs of New Britain. On the way
we passed White Oak Park, where advertisements
announced the usual attraction of a vaudeville theatre,
" occupied daily by high-class talent." By the law of
contrast, however, the only passengers who got off at
White Oak were two colored women, black as the ace
of spades, w-hose set, lugubrious countenances had
attracted our attention on the run up from Plainville.
We naturally supposed them to be deep in bereavement,
and we could hardly believe our eyes when we saw
them disappearing through the park entrance into the
tangles of rag-time and end-men's jokes.
When we boarded the Hartford trolley in New
Britain square, we realized for the first time the rapid
increase of the foreign element in New England. For
certainly a third of the passengers were foreigners —
a fact evidenced not only by the swarthy faces and
brilliant kerchiefs, but also by the Babel of tongues
from Teuton gutturals to French patois. We were not
surprised, therefore, to learn that the French Canadians
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
and Italians had secured a strong foothold in the land
of the Puritans, and indeed that the French Canadians
had become a political power. At many places along
the route, in country as well as city, the immigrant
was to be seen, hardy, thrifty and indubitably pros-
perous. In fact, not only has he imbibed American
ideas, but he has bettered the instruction.
" Just too lovely for anything! "' Louisa rapturously
A HARTFORD STREET
recorded in her diary, as descriptive of the ten miles
of trolleying from New Britain to Hartford. As in
the ride from Aleriden, plain and hill diversified the
scenery. As we neared the city, the gables of Trinity
Colle;ge looked down upon us from their commanding
eminence, and farther on we could see the capitol dome
glistening in the sun.
From Hartford over the Massachusetts Hills.
" Would you ever think it? A company of little, fat,
waddling Dutchmen were the first settlers round Hart-
ford," philosophised Louisa, as we were strolling
through Bushnell Park. For her interpretations of
history are distinctly original, and she frequently insists
that a little history in time would save nine historical
" Well, Fm glad." she went on to say in her most
positive, guide-book tone, '' that the Dutchmen zvcrc
driven away. They Avould have made this beautiful
city a stupid wilderness of windmills and cabbage
patches — " a sudden whirring sound and a ringing cry
of distress, just as we reached the Memorial Arch,
rudely interrupted the philosophy of history. Glanc-
ing nervously back in the direction of the noise, we
beheld a large auto-car bearing madly down upon us.
The chaufifeur had lost control of his machine and the
other occupant, a woman, was clinging in terror to the
careening motor. Naturally we did not stop to dis-
pute the right of way with the wildcat automobile,
but fled behind a pillar of the Arch just in time to see
the machine go reeling by and zigzag for the next
corner, where it promptly upset, " spilling " both occu-
pants upon the sidewalk. Rushing to the spot, we
recognized two members of the gay party of autoists
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 83
we had passed on the Greenwich road three days before.
Fortunately they proved to be a good deal more fright-
ened than hurt. "Only a little shaken up," they
explained depreciatingly, looking sadly at the machine
which lay by the curb with its withers all unwrung —
or so it seemed to my mere trolley eye.
" Really it's nothing," continued the chauffeur, as
he explored with a forefinger and thumb his bruised
nose and the long overhang of his swollen upper lip.
" I can't understand," he added, " what got into the
machine. I expected to go straight through to Bos-
ton; " and he bent over the twisted levers as if to
exorcise the demon that had taken possession of them.
" You'd better get another motor or else take out an
accident policy," volunteered a bystander sententiously
— advice naturally inspired by Hartford's atmosphere,
since both automobiles and insurance are substantial
sources of the city's prosperity. Indeed, it would be
interesting to know whether it insures more lives than
are destroyed by the revolvers, machine guns, auto-
mobiles and other instruments of death that are num-
bered among its manufactures.
Our liveliest recollections of Hartford center around
a street adventure in which a dog figured as the hero,
a dog worthy to have his praises sung in some canine
Homeric. Half-way down a broad, tree-lined avenue,
our car stopped to let on a wayside passenger. As the
man plumped into a seat near us, we saw close by the
running board the square jaws and wall eyes of a
bull dog. The brute made a desperate lunge to follow
the man in, but the speed of the car. which was now
forging ahead again, mocked his frantic efforts. Still
84 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
he followed gamely in the wake of the whizzing eight-
w'heeler, though soon almost hopelessly distanced.
Aleanwhile the passenger told his story. The dog,
it appeared, was not his own, but a stray one that had
been trailing him around all morning, though he had
done nothing whatever, he explained, to encourage the
four-footed compliment. After a race of ten blocks,
however, the car pulled up for the same man to get off.
This stop put new hope in the almost exhausted animal;
and by a heroic effort he succeeded in catching up with
the flyer before it got under way again. Then — for he
had not seen the passenger's escape — he jumped furi-
ously aboard. Quivering and panting, the frantic beast
leaped from seat to seat in search of the missing man,
scattering the passengers right and left and knocking
over Killdeer with a particularly well-directed blow.
Soon in the fury of his disappointment off he jumped
to the ground, while the car was going at full speed.
For a second he lay stunned from the force of the
impact; then scrambling' up, with head and tongue
cut and bleeding, he pressed on in a grim, blind chase
. after the trolley — a chase that never ended before we
reached the terminal point. Overtaking us at last, he
charged upon the front platform, where he was cor-
alled and held captive in the motorman's pen.
His perseverance, however, was destined to be
rewarded. On the down trip he caught sight of his
new master waiting for him at a street corner. On
being released, he tore to the man's side, every leap
testifying to his boundless joy.
The next morning saw^ us standing by the low, iron-
hooped railing in front of City Hall — the trolley center.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
While waiting for the East Windsor car to h^ shuttled
round the loop, we recognized in the changing throng
that lined the curb some companions on the ride to
Roton Point along the Sound. On exchanging greet-
ing we learned that, like ourselves, they were on .their
way to Boston; they had taken the Cheshire route from
New Haven and so we had missed them on the way up.
With the fraternal spirit that prompts through trip-
A TOBACCO FIELD
pers, we compared notes and guide-books to mutual
While thus engaged I heard my name sharply called,
and the next moment there stood at my elbow the tall,
dignified stranger who had importuned me on insur-
ance all the way into Lazy Lane. In his breezy style
he dwelt upon the unexpected pleasure of the meeting
86 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
and blandly announced that he should be delighted
to accompany me as far as Springfield. This would
give him a good opportunity to lay before me the
salient features of an entirely new proposition — one
that I could not afford to neglect, designated as it was
for my special case. He was too far gone in the pleas-
ures of his own eloquence to heed my protestations;
and when we hopped into the Windsor car the insur-
ance ogre was close at our heels.
A short ride through the foreign quarter (a minia-
ture Ghetto which seemed all the more squalid in con-
trast with the attractive homes of Hartford's aristo-
cratic avenues) — a dash over the bridge across the
Connecticut; and we whisked on to East Windsor
Hill. Here, our persecutor still dangling after us, we
changed into the commodious double truck which ran
straight through to Springfield.
For nearly twenty miles we trolleyed by field and
farm, or under spreading elms through sedate village
streets, a long line of white-painted poles marking at
regular intervals the scheduled stops of the car. The
rich green of the tobacco fields (green Louisa says;
but to my imagination disordered by the flood of insur-
ance talk poured into my ear, the motto, " Figures don't
lie," seemed to overshadow the landscape) set off here
and there by the dark outlines of weather-beaten sheds,
dominated the foreground, while now and then, as we
skirted the river, its glimmering surface became the
central point in the field of vision.
The scenery, however, laid no spell upon the agent.
All the while, with a beaming countenance and a mas-
terful manner that disarmed resentment, he quoted ages
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
and in short discoursed upon the merits of his new
poHcy as rapturously as Dr. Primrose upon his cele-
brated hobby — and to as little purpose. For his words
went in one ear and out the other. Yet though suf-
fering in silence, I had been maturing a plan of ven-
geance. Biding my time until I could get a word in
edgewise, I gradually shifted the subject to my own be-
setting weakness; and then unbottled the confessions of
THE CONNECTICUT RIVER
a man in the most hopeless stage of kodakery. When
he lisped premiums, I matched him with velox; if he
harped upon endowments, I dilated upon the best way
of taking a " moving " picture — a subject upon which
I could speak most feelingly, since all my earlier shots
had been nothing but a blurred series of " moves."
The masterful man, however, was not to be squelched.
88 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
Warily waiting until I had talked myself out, he hegan
again with his refrain, *' Figures can't lie," and aggres-
sively essayed another volley of rates and values from
his little black book.
At State Line a conspicuous sign, " Hot Buttered
Pop Corn," announced that we were on Massachusetts
soil; and soon we were chuff-chuffing along the
stretch of grass track under the high-arched trees of
Longmeadow — a cathedral aisle of green that recalled
the memories of the southern shore. Then but a short
spurt — and zigging and zagging with the winding river
we caught sight of Springfield and of Mount Tom
beyond standing like a giant guard over the valley.
Passing Forest Park and on through the trim suburbs,
we went trundling down into the heart of the city.
Under the railroad arch we parted coldly with the ogre,
who "hinted, as before, at the probability of another
" ril write up a policy anyway — say about ten thou-
sand — and submit it to you," he shouted, as we turned
to go into the hotel.
" Look out. the figures don't lie." I yelled back at
him; and. taking a firmer grip upon our baggage,
Louisa and I fled inside. Here an awful truth dawned
" Good gracious, we've lost our guide-books," she
suddenly exclaimed in her tragic alto. \Miether they
had fallen by the wayside or had found their way by
mistake into the pocket of the insurance man — it was
all the same. \\'e were freed from their tyranny, I
secretly consoled myself.
To Louisa, however, bereft of her guide-books, there
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 89
was a shadow of disappointment about our random
pilgrimage through Springfield's streets, inviting
though they were. She found a certain compensation
in the historic landmarks and gazed with rapt interest
upon the tall white pillars and quaint belfry of the
" Old First Church," which fronts the square hard by
the battle monument.
The " green," or square, with a soldier's monument
in the center seems to be an ever-present feature of the
towns in Western Massachusetts; and, as one rambles
through them, he recalls Hawthorne's words about the
march of the Gray Champion and the New England
sense of patriotic duty.
When the time came to resume our journey, we made
enquiries concerning the Palmer car and were directed
to a white pole near the hotel, its regular " berth," or
stopping place, around which a score of persons were
already clustered — many of them through trippers, as
we judged from the goodly array of suit cases. There
is excellent service on the Springfield trolleys, and
punctual to the second the Palmer truck came bounding
along. As it pulled up at the pole, we clutched our
belongings with a professional grasp preparatory to a
fierce scramble for seats. For the firm-set jaws of our
fellow-trippers betokened not only combative qualities,
but a good measure of New England resolution as
well. Greatly to our relief, however, they mounted the
flyer with dignified deliberation; and what was more
surprising, we had no competitors for the choice seats
in motorman's row. Casting a last glance back, as the
car shot off, we saw standing in front of the hotel the
two victims of the automobile " spill " in Hartford.
A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON
They bore no signs of the accident; but were chatting
merrily, as they regarded with affectionate interest a
touring car, glossy new, which stood by the curb,
As we climbed a hill in the suburbs, the wide enclos-
ure of the United States Armory came into view. At
sight of the low\, sprawling piles of red brick, sur-
mounted by a triangular gable, Louisa betrayed a rap-
A SPRINGFIELD STREET
turous concern that hardly accorded with her pacific
We had not gone many miles on the way to Palmer
before we began to observe a marked change in the
appearance of the country. Smoke-stacks, flumes and
mill-wheels spoke of a manufacturing section. The
elms, which had been so attractive a feature of Con-
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 91
necticiit trolleying, no longer arched the highways,
though, to be sure, we met them again in all their glory
on Brookfield green. Along these Massachusetts hills
much of the scenery has a rugged, indeed rock-bound
character. Stone walls take the place of the rail fences,
common in Jersey and Pennsylvania. Even more
noticeable to the tourist than the physical features of
the country is the New England voice, with its shrill
pitch and nasal intonation. Surely it is not an excel-
lent thing in man or woman — or phonograph. Is it a
climatic survival or a Puritan heritage ?
Though the situation of Palmer is undeniably attract-
ive to the eye, yet much of the illusion disappears
when one trolleys into the center of the town. Per-
haps, however, our disappointment was inspired by the
dreaded sight of a picnic party standing near the track
and in act to spring upon a car that was rounding a
curve. As we stepped from the flyer we were caught
in the rush and the next moment, from sheer force of
example, we found ourselves wildly elbowing our way
along with the crowd, regardless of our destination.
As luck would have it, however,, we landed in the right
car and were presently speeding over the highway to
About five miles out of Palmer our flyer made a
brief stop near the entrance to a large grove, which
bumptious advertisements proclaimed " The Pleasure
Resort of New England," and which, in truth, had a
most inviting appearance. Here the picnic party got
off, though with a measured deliberation that afforded
a grotesque contrast to their riotous haste in boarding
the car at Palmer.
92 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
Among the crowd streaming through the entrance
to the grove was a small boy who was whistling; and
dancing in blissful anticipations of a day's sport.
Suddenly, however, we saw him turn and come run-
ning towards the car, at the same time shouting excit-
edly to the conductor. Scjuirming in and out among
the picnickers, he made known to us in husky tones that
he had lost his lunch basket, which, he supposed, he
ON THE ROAD TO PALMER
had left in our car; and tears filled his eyes at the bit-
ter thought of the cataclysm that had overtaken him —
for what is life to growing youth without a well-filled
lunch basket? The tragedy deepened when the good-
natured conductor, after a thorough search seat by seat,
could find no trace of the missing cheer. The lad was
trudging away, the picture of misery, when a sympa-
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 93
thetic passenger thrust a quarter into his fist and bade
him drown the first great sorrow of his young Hfe in
ice cream soda. It transpired that the basket had been
left in the car which was whizzing back to Pahner far
beyond the reach of an insatiable appetite. One natur-
ally wonders what became of " grandmother's cookies."
Were they turned into the Lost and Found Depart-
ment? Or, if purloined, did they trouble the con-
science or digestion of the guilty person?
Our plans had been to stay over at Ware until the
next morning. For we had covered fifty miles, our
daily allotment of trolleying; and besides the spruce-
looking town gave promise of good hotel accommoda-
tions. As we were riding down the main street, how-
ever, Louisa abruptly exclaimed : " Something tells me
to push ahead on our journey. Let's take the next car
Just at that moment it came trundling along, and
prompted by the mysterious warning we made a hur-
ried transfer to it. At the time I did scant justice to
Louisa's "impression;" but not long afterwards, as
will appear, we were both devoutly thankful for having
West Brookfield lies over the hills from Ware; and,
as was to be expected, we had up-grade trolleying.
Indeed, we had hardly started on our way before we
encountered a steep incline. We heard a sudden splut-
ter of the little trolley wheel, as it spun along the wire;
and a pungent odor of burnt carbon told us that some-
thing had gone wrong with the motor. The crippled
car, however, crept along as far as Wickaboag Lake,
w^here a " special " was waiting to take the passengers
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
on their way. At this turn of affairs Louisa could ill
conceal her disappointment, for her imagination, I half
suspect, had conjured up a romantic adventure to be
embalmed in her diary.
An episode of the ride to West Brookfield exemplifies
the rugged type of character one meets in these New
England hills. As we turned into the main street of
that quiet town, an angular, hatchet-faced woman
THE HILLS NEAR WARE
flounced from her seat and signalled the conductor to
stop; but as it chanced, she was carried a few feet
beyond her destination. Glaring indignantly at the
conductor, she demanded in a shrill voice that the car
run back to her destination or else that her nickel be
returned. Both these demands being flatly refused,
she got oft' the car in high dudgeon and. transferring
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 95
her wrath to the motorman, shook her umbrella vio-
lently in his face. The novel sight of a mere passen-
ger trying to bullyrag both motorman and conductor
so unnerved me that I forgot to snap Killdeer at the
scene. If only that New Rochelle despot, I thought,
could meet with such a Nemesis.
The ancient four-wheeler, into which we now
changed for Spencer, was most uncomfortably crowded
and we were compelled accordingly to take seats in
" smokers' row," where we were nearly suffocated from
tobacco fumes. Through this obscuring veil we could
get but a hazy view of the landscape as we trolleyed
on. One thing, however, clings to our memory — a
guide-post by the roadside, reading " To Podunk 3 M."
So Podunk really is on the map. I had believed it to
be a myth of my schoolboy days.
A short time afterwards we were bowding along
through the outskirts of Spencer, where an odor of
vinegar, mightier than those of fair Cologne, welcomed
the stranger within the gates.
A Fortunate Decision.
Spencer was brave in flags and bunting the afternoon
we trolleyed into town ; and up and down its hilly main
street excitement was afoot. As the Fourth of July
had gone and St. Patrick's was still far off, we were
at loss to account for the sudden blaze of glory that
had burst upon the little manufacturing town. Our
first enquiry, however, brought out the truth with
" Is there a good hotel here? " I buttonholed a resi-
dent while we were plodding down the steep descent
from the Town Hall.
" We ought to have," returned the man with an into-
nation that conveyed a covert rebuke. '' We are just
celebrating our one hundred and fiftieth anniversary."
Dazed by his subtle reasoning, and mutely following
his directions, we soon beheld at a distance well within
the enchantment limit a large white structure with a
two-story balcony swathed in gaudy decorations — ■
doubtless the survival of the civic celebration. We
hurried inside its portals and with all due homage I
sought out the dignitary behind the desk.
" Shooting now? "' I heard someone say in a hearty
tone, as I was craning my neck over the hotel register ;
and turning around I recognized the twinkling eyes and
waggish smile of the through tripper we had met at
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 97
Roton and afterwards in Hartford. In answer I
pointed to Killdeer, whicli was slung over my left
shoulder; and in the course of conversation I chanced
to mention my loquacious persecutor on the trip to
Spring-field, of whom he entertained a lively recol-
" That insurance burr,'' he repeated, giving me a
fraternal slap on the shoulder. " I just ran across him
here in Spencer this morning. He asked me if I had
" Here in town," I gasped.
'' Yes, hot foot on your trail," he returned. " Do
you know," he added, "I think the man's nutty;"
and he tapped his forehead oracularly, as if in further
confirmation of his diagnosis.
If it be " nuttiness," I thought, there's method in it.
Indeed, hardly had the mention of the demon escaped
our lips before we heard his cloven foot; and the office
door suddenly swinging open, the agent stood before
us as imperturbable as the Sphinx.
" Here you are. I've made it ten thousand," he
declared after a brief salutation, while he waved an
impressive-looking paper close to my nose.
In his masterful presence I could make no demur.
I suffered in silence as he went on in his monologue.
He would really advise me to carry another five thou-
sand, and would be happy, of course, to acquaint me
with his plan of dividends deferred that maketh the
heart sick. Dowai went his pudgy fist into his pocket,
but I intercepted him in time.
" Don't show me that exasperating, little black book
again," I protested. " I draw the line on that."
98 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
" I was merely going to say," he returned, " that
figures don't He."
Then, while I listened in dumb helplessness, he broke
out more volubly than before. His demonic scheme
of vengeance was evident; if he couldn't insure me,
he would at least talk me to death. Half assenting,
therefore, to his demands, I made a conditional appoint-
ment for the following morning, when I hoped to steal
a march on him.
There was another surprise in store for us at this
hotel in Spencer. At our first meal there one guest
had incautiously asked for hot rolls.
" Hot rolls for supper. Certainly not," repeated the
austere waitress in icy tones; and the New England
conscience reflected in her eyes looked daggers at the
questioner who shrank back abashed in his chair.
We were up betimes the next morning. There had
been a sudden fall in temperature: and indeed there
was such a chill in the air, when we boarded the eight-
wheeler for Worcester that we were glad to impress
into service the heavy coats we had been tempted to
throw away the day before. The jovial trolley ite we
had overtaken at the hotel joined us, armed with his
large tripod camera, at sight of which Killdeer, feeling
his insignificance as a mere snap-shooter, could not
conceal his professional jealousy. Just before starting
we strained our eyes for a glimpse of our pursuer, but
greatly to our relief, as well as surprise, his silk hat
and stalwart figure were nowhere to be seen. Our
companion, to be sure, insisted that the man was con-
cealed under the fender; but this hypothesis, though
plausible, proved to be groundless.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
Trolleyiiig in the early morning on a summer's day
has an irresistible charm; and the inviting landscape
on the way to Worcester made the ride far more enjoy-
able than the leaden-footed parasangs through the three
Brookfields on the afternoon before.
At the suggestion of our fellow-tripper, we stopped
over in Leicester (an attractive village half way on the
road to Worcester) where, as he assured us, we would
ON THE HILL. SPEKXER
So it proved. For the town
stands on a hill that commands a striking view of the
countryside. Not before Killdeer had done his worst
with the unoffending scenery and our ammunition was
exhausted did we resume our journey.
As we trolleyed into the main square of Worcester,
the black hands on City Hall clock pointed to nine
100 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
minutes after ten. The curb of the broad pavement
was black with waiting excursionists, the eyes of the
host gkied to the Boston flyer, which was shooting
around the corner. We had heard much of this new
route on the ConsoHdated (forty miles in two hours
without change) ; and as the line-up by the curb sud-
denly broke in a scattered rush for the eight-wheeler,
Louisa exclaimed excitedly : " O hurry, please. Let's
take this car."
" But I thought you wanted to stay over and look
around the city," I interposed. '' You know Worcester
is the heart of the commonwealth."
A toss of her head sealed the decision, and we hur-
riedly joined the scramble for seats. Our trolley
experience stood us in good stead. For our fighting
blood once aroused, we jostled and jammed and jabbed
our fellow-mortals so aggressively that though the car
made only a lightning stop, we succeeded in hurling
ourselves aboard, though necessarily in a bedraggled
condition and with both baggage and manners much
the worse for wear. Fate squeezed us into the very
front row, where one rides backward, gazing the while
into the solemn trolley faces of one's fellow-passengers.
And speaking of manners — our long trip convinced
us of the crying need of a complete guide or manual
on " The Etiquette of Trolley Stampedes," with copi-
ous notes and diagrams adjusted to critical situations.
Among pertinent chapters in such a code book would
be the following:
" Is it off-side to knock your fellow-tripper down
before the car for which vou are waiting comes to a
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
" Will parlor manners preserve one's life in a trolley
" Why * let 'em off first ? ' Has the rule any founda-
tion in Ethics? "
One wonders, however, whether the author of a
Polite Guide for Trolley Use would be any more likely
to follow his own teaching- than the man who wrote the
A WORCESTER CORNER
historic book against duelling and afterwards chal-
lenged one of its critics to mortal combat.
The ride to Boston proved a succession of novel
experiences. In a few minutes we were out of the
city limits, flying- past field after field of sumac. At
Shrewsbury line, however, our motorman pulled up
with a sudden jolt; and the long, tedious delay that
ensued, first apprised us of the disorganized condition
102 A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON
of the running schedule. As it proved, our car was
" held " to await the up flyer; and not until it thun-
dered past was there a clear track for us to go ahead.
Once under way again, however, we tore along at a
rate of speed that almost took our breath away. It
was trolleying fast and furious. Though this whirl-
wind rate was not sustained all the way to Boston, yet
there were numerous outbursts of speed — and notably
while the car was running over the company's exclu-
sive right of way straight through the woods — that
afforded us a faint glimpse into the autoists' paradise
when the landscape goes reeling by in a mad, jumbled
dance. Braced against the sharp knee-caps of a
weazened-faced man in front of me, and clutching my
note-book in one hand, I prepared to jot down with the
other a few dazed impressions. Hardly, however, had
I whipped out my pencil before the note-book, upon
which I had inadvertently loosened my grip, was swept
out of my hand by the speed-generated breeze and
whirled far into space.
" There goes my manuscript," I cried ruefully.
" What a pity," consoled Louisa. " You'll never
get it back."
" But manuscripts always come back," I rejoined In
a tone of conviction.
Meanwhile on we whizzed. At times, when the
speed was greatest, we felt the same qualmish sensa-
tion that one experiences in an express elevator as it
goes shooting down from the top floor of a skyscraper.
Such speed mania does not make ideal trolleying: and
indeed in many cases is a senseless challenge to dis-
aster. Still it was reassurine to observe the elaborate
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
system of signals that the company had installed as a
safeguard against danger. For at frequent intervals
along the track were posted signs bearing such warn-
ings as " Whistle," " Stop," " Go slow."
This flying Yankee made but few scheduled stops;
but those were thrice welcome, since the rocking and
swaying of the eight-wheeler not only conveyed a most
disquieting sense of peril, but the cannon-ball rate of
speed made of the landscape a chaotic blur. To be sure,
here and there, as the car slowed up, a few shreds and
patches of scenery were disclosed to us. We caught
a fleeting view of the countryside round Southboro,
where the track winds along a chain of watersheds.
We lingered for a brief moment under the shade in
the drowsy streets of Framingham and Wellesley,
104 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
though Lake Waban and the grounds of Wellesley
College lay outside our field of vision. x\s we neared
Brookline, however, our flyer had another speed spasm,
so that our recollections of this suburb of Boston are
but an indistinct medley of trees and poles.
In spite of the long delay at Shrewsbury line, we
reached Chestnut Hill very nearly on time; but here
the passengers were obliged to change cars for the sub-
way. " Dumped out " expresses more accurately our
method of egress from the flyer. For hardly had the
wheels stopped turning before a flock of trolley trip-
pers from Boston swooped down upon us to capture
seats for the return ride to Worcester; and through
three or four rows, therefore, of highly-excited culture
w-e had to fight our way to the ground. Indeed, in my
anxiety to save Killdeer from being crushed in the
melee, I found myself wedged in between the backs of
two seats, one of which was being reversed by half a
dozen excited claimants. For the principle of " Let
'em off first " is apparently not recognized in the mod-
ern Athens. A well-dressed man with a heavy Web-
sterian brow, fiercely intent on going Worcester ward,
stubbornly blocked my way out, as if he regarded my
presence as a most unreasonable intrusion; and he
yielded only at the last moment. Once out, I looked
wildly around for Louisa, who had tripped out ahead
of me. Fortunately she had passed through the scrim-
mage unscathed. As we shook ofif the signs of con-
flict, we declared our conviction that this stampede at
Chestnut Hill was the worst exhibition of trolley man-
ners we had yet seen, not excepting Broadway and the
metropolis, where all things come to him who — rushes.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 105
As we saw the flyer rapidly disappear in the direction
of Worcester, Httle did we think that it was dashing
towards a tragedy. Yet that evening we heard the
Boston newsboys histily crying out *' Terrible Acci-
dent on the Consolidated. One Killed and Forty
Injured." As it proved, this very car, for seats in
w^hich the crowd had struggled so madly at Chestnut
Hill, collided with the flver from Worcester. The
A BACK BAY STREET, BOSTON
catastrophe impressed us all the more deeply because
of the knowledge, now brought home to us, that in all
human probability we should have been passengers on
the down car and among the victims of the wreck, had
not Louisa's mysterious warning at Ware changed our
plans and hurried us on our journey.
Boston was sweltering in heat and the chill air of
106 A TBOLLEY HONEYMOON
the subway afforded a welcome, if brief, deliverance.
We had heard much of the reserved Bostonian manner ;
and we were taken by surprise, therefore, on alighting
at Park Street station to find the place seething with
excitement. The platform was awhirl with men,
women and children trying to dodge each other, as
they prepared excitedly to vault into the open eight-
wheelers which were flying round the loop with bewil-
" Why, just look there," cried Louisa, as we turned
to go up the exit to the street. I screwed my head
around in time to see a fat, dumpy woman, a shawl
over her head, chasing a car down the loop and shriek-
ing: "Me baby. They've gone off wid me baby."
Louisa had seen her fling her child and a large bundle
on the rear seat of a Brighton car; but before the
woman could follow her belongings the flyer had swept
past its " berth " (as the stopping place is called) and
was racing down the tunnel. We did not await the
result of the woman's quest; but we were fully con-
vinced that one must be spry indeed to leap into a sub-
way trolley. Life, in truth, is real and earnest in the
Park Street subway.
The teachers' convention and low railroad rates
from the west had attracted to Boston a larger number
than usual of sightseers. Their name was legion. We
met them, not only in our pilgrimages through the
rambling byways of the city, but also in its environs —
and notably in historic Concord and Cambridge.
During our stay in the Hub the mystery attaching
to Killdeer was explained. The knowing, almost inso-
lent, leer on the face of the hotel porter, when I
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
declined to entrust my kodak to his feed mercy, recalled
my experience in Bridgeport.
" Say, Buttons," I turned sharply on him. '' What
are you grinning at? Haven't you ever seen a kodak
" Why, Boss," he plumped back. " We fellows
thought perhaps you were carrying diamonds in it.
It's an old dodge."
Diamonds. Louisa and I laughed heartily at the
idea; but after that I was cautious how I showed my
affection for Killdeer in public.
UNDER THE OLD ELM, CAMBRIDGE
Ix \\'hich We are Gorged with History.
The East Wind of Boston is a tricksy spirit; and the
morning we continued our journey, the mahcious elf
was holding- high carnival on Chelsea bridge. There
had been, however, a sudden drop in the temperature;
and when we descended into the tunnel at Scollay
Square the damp air chilled us to the bone.
Across the Lynn meadows the wind had full sweep;
and though the curtains were drawn taut, trolleying in
an open car in the teeth of Notus was so little to our
relish that we were heartily glad to find refuge in the
more sheltered city.
'' O curfew of the setting sun, O bells of Lynn;
O requiem of the dying day, O bells of Lynn,"
quoted Louisa. The fact is that it was her day for
quotations, for otherwise, as we agreed, there could
have been no reasonable expectation of hearing the
sound of curfew at the breakfast hour; and, in fact,
naught but the hum of traffic filled the streets as our
car pulled up in the square near the railroad crossing.
Even here, however, the wind was blowing in fitful
gusts and raising the dust in eddies. Its pranks
afforded us a diverting comedy, while we stood in the
lee of a shop window keeping a good lookout, never—
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 109
theless, for the Salem trolley. One puff switched the
straw hat off a fat man's head, twirling it high in the
air, only to let it fall with a sudden flop in the middle
of the street. Here was the owner's chance; nor was
he the kind of man to neglect his opportunities. He
made a dive for the hat and, with a ponderous look
of self-satisfaction pictured on his solemn countenance,
had just stooped to grasp the runaway, when off
WAITING FOR THE TROLLEY, LYNN
it darted from under his broad palm with a malicious
spurt, as if it rather exulted in the novel idea of taking
a day off. No situation could be more trying for
eminent respectability. Even an imperial Caesar would
have had hard work to preserve his personal dignity,
while chasing his laurel wreath around a flatiron corner
in the Forum on a raw and gusty day. followed by a
110 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
string of ribald urchins in full cry. As for our hero,
however, though impious thoughts corrugated his
brows, he was not to be daunted; but with grim
Yankee persistency he followed the gyrations of the
wind-blown object, as it lured him onward. Soon,
however, hat and pursuer disappeared round a corner
and the final act in the comedy was hidden from us.
The Salem car was now at the curb, and the next
moment we were once more in the throes of a trolley
scramble. As we scurried across the sidewalk in the
wake of the crowd, Louisa spied a tiny shoe, evidently
brand new, lying in the gutter, where it doubtless had
been carried by the playful breeze.
" What an appropriate souvenir of the Shoe City,"
she exclaimed; but no sooner had she pounced upon
the treasure trove than its infant owner came toddling
up to reclaim it.
" Findings are keepings." quoted Louisa.
'' Not shoe findings," beamed the child's parent in
return; and accordingly the trophy was restored to
the owner, who crowed with delight.
Though troUeying through Essex county offers but
few attractions to the eye, it is rich in historical asso-
ciations. Hardly, indeed, had we set foot in Salem
before a bright-eyed lad with shining morning face
ran up to us and, pointing to a nickel badge on his
breast, said: " I'm the official guide. Don't you want
to see the House Qf Seven Gables? "
The question touching a responsive chord (for
Louisa was in a deeply historical mood that morning)
off we started with our youthful escort on a pilgrimage
through Hawthorne's citv. The dream v influence of
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 111
the romancer's genius seem still to hang over this old
Puritan town; and under its spell we could recreate in
fancy the scene of Maule's execution, where the victim
of witchcraft bigotry pronounced the curse upon his
enemy : " God will give thee blood to drink." Yet we
must admit that the illusion was in a measure dis-
pelled at the sight of the shabby and fhmsy structure
which our guide proudly pointed out to us as the
Gables. In vain we looked for the haunted well and
garden where Chanticleer and his degenerate brood
passed their declining years, and where little Phoebe
mortally wounded the pride of Speckles. To be sure,
an historical lie well stuck to is as good as the truth;
but calling a house Seven Gables that has but four is
stretching the elementary mathematics as well as the
Gorged at last with romance and history, we saunt-
ered back to the trolley station, where we boarded the
car for Beverley. Louisa was in raptures; and as we
trolleyed past the ancient roofs and gables there floated
before her eyes visions of canopies, brass candlesticks
and colonial straight backs. Though " Old Essex "
contains many notable estates and country seats, yet
few of them are to be seen by the trolley traveller, for
his course takes him through a rugged by-section.
Near Pride's Crossing, Louisa had hoped to get a half
glimpse at least of the famous Bartlett Gardens, but
the trolley knew them not.
On getting out into the open country, we felt once
more the relentless force of the wind ; and by the time
we had trundled into Ipswich Junction, a veritable gale
was blowing. Indeed, the Junction, located as it was
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
on a bleak hill-top, was exposed to the full fury of the
Its chief habitation was a small and dingy frame build-
ing, the ground floor of which served the purpose of a
trolley waiting-room. Roughly pencilled over the door
was a paraphrase of the grim legend on the portals of
the Inferno; while its interior was garnished with
row^s of glass jars filled with stick candy and gum-
FIRST IMPRESSIONS OF SALEM
drops. On the other side of the track loomed up a
large advertising board plastered with a broad expanse
of yellow paper which attracted Louisa's eye at once.
" There's a splendid wind shield," she cried, nod-
ding in the yellow direction; and on its lee side we
quickly found shelter on scrambling out of the car.
Meanwhile, as we lay in ambush for the connecting
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 113
trolley, the piping blasts from off Cape Ann howled
past our ears; nor did we venture forth from our
retreat before we heard the whirr of the wheels coming
up the hill.
" It's against the rule/' said the conductor (we were
trolley ing onward again) to a shivering passenger who
had asked to have the windward curtain pulled down.
Both spoke with a Yankee twang that bore unmistak-
ably the rural hall-mark ; and. in fact, most of the pas-
sengers were of the same type — a sedate, taciturn group
for whom apparently life held but few charms. Indeed
the trolley face one sees in " Old Essex '' is almost
Perhaps after all. the sedate manner of our fellow-
passengers was only another expression of the leis-
urely calm that permeates all this section from Ipswich
Junction to Newburyport. Here, in truth, time flits
carelessly like a summer's day in Arden. The trolley
service shared in the general spirit of repose, and we
encountered wearisome delays at nearly every connect-
ing point after leaving Salem.
For that reason we were not surprised on ambling
into Ipswich town ( the first station after leaving the
Junction) to learn that we had just lost the connecting
car. We found this drowsy little village in the sole
possession — so far as outward signs went — of a tow-
headed boy and girl who were loitering near the trolley
station. Their attention was attracted at once to Kill-
deer; and. after scrutinizing us with a baby stare, they
decided to pardon our intrusion into their Arcadia.
" Mister, please take my pixter." cried the little girl,
radiant witli anticipated joy. As it chanced, both
114 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
cherubs had just been diving into a paper bag stuffed
with molasses candy; and sundry foreign accretions on
their chubby faces bore eloquent testimony to the havoc
they had wrought. They seemed to be all fingers, and
sticky ones at that, so that more than once Killdeer was
profaned by the inquisitive touch of molasses before 1
succeeded in shooting the coveted " pixter." Nor were
" pixters " the limit of their \-outhful ambition.
"mister, take mv pixter?"
" Please take us with you to Rowley." chimed in
the cherubs, after they had learned of our destination.
To their imagination a ride t(^ Rowley, though only
the adjoining town to Ipswich, promised all the nov-
eltv of a plunge into the unknown ; and the long track
and high trolley poles that stretched in that direction
brought to their minds visions of the great
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
wide world, where Jack the Giant Killer pursues
the slaughtering business and Bluebeard hangs up his
matrimonial difficulties nine at a time. Innocent little
souls, what did they reck of Armour and beef trusts
and South Dakota? So earnestly, in fact, did they
plead that Louisa was sorely tempted to take them
along to the next town, sending the little travelers
back in charge of the conductor; but this, I argued,
TROLLEY JUNCTION, NEAR DUMMERS
might be construed as kidnapping. As our car pulled
away, however, we watched the youthful guardians of
Ipswich from the rear seat of the four-wheeler. When
we turned a sharp bend in the road they were still
standing by the station, looking wistfully after us.
Like its immediate predecessors along the route, our
car w^as an open single truck. Through it the high
116 A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
wind had full sweep and continued to play fantastic
tricks with the hats of unwary passengers. Near Bum-
mer's a long stop was made expressly to allow one
unfortunate to recover his derby which was soaring-
back to Ipswich. As the man sprinted down the track
in quest of it, the occupants of the four-wheeler, deeply
sympathetic, quickly jumped out and lined up along the
running board to watch the progress of the long chase.
The man returned winded but triumphant; and then
his fellow-passengers — for they were not of the emo-
tional type — solemnly climbed into the car after him
without giving the usual tribute of a cheer.
It proved slow trolleying to Newburyport. At last
the roofs and spires of the city by the Merrimac rose
above the broad wolds; and we decided to break the
journey there until Aeolus had exhausted his available
supply of blasts and breezes. It's an ill-wind that
doesn't know when to stop.
Coming through the Rvtes.
" It's Lafayette." said Louisa.
" It reminds me of Timothy Dexter," I ventured.
" O, I know now," she continued. " It's the very
image of Whittier. Look at the set expression of the
" That's Paul Jones' coat," I protested firmly.
A NEWBURYPORT PARK
We stood gazing- in perplexity at a statue on the
edge of Newburyport's park. The figure, once bronze,
118 A TIWLLEY HONEYMOON
had turned green with age or envy; but the imposing
pedestal upon which it was perched argued a distin-
guished man. On the pedestal, however, we could
decipher no sign of identification — merely the name of
the donor; and we concluded accordingly that the
effigy was one of a local worthy. Louisa's curiosity,
however, was sharply whetted and, spying an elderly
man strolling along the shady side of the street, she
"" Waslungton," said the stranger curtly, glaring sus-
piciously at us. Though we blushed with mortification,
we took refuge in the consoling thought that not even
Washington's mother would have recognized the
effigy in its neglected condition.
Nor was that the only humiliating blunder we made.
As we were strolling down the main street, our atten-
tion was attracted by an old tavern sign which pro-
jected from a tall post on the curb and upon which was
painted the likeness of a man in tye wig and continental
cockade, while below was the inscription, " James
" What Wolfe is that? " I enquired at random of a
bright-eyed lad who chanced to be passing.
" Why, that's the great general who took Quebec,"
returned the youth. " Didn't you ever read about him
in American history ? "
In spite of the rebuke by my young critic I could
not help thinking that Newburyport had done a cruel
injustice to the countenance of the hero. For the
marked projection of the nose and lower lip beyond
the face line not only marred the unity of design, but
forced the belief that a man-fish sat as the artist's model.
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 119
■" Could a man with gills like that," I thought, " have
been the victor on the Heights of Abraham ? No v^on-
der he died happy." Indeed the artist's four de force
reminded one of the famous likeness of Sir Roger de
Coverley, the portrait that merely by the addition of
whiskers was transf<jrmed into a Saracen's head.
OLD TAVERN SIGN, NEWBURYPORT
The Wolfe tavern dates l)ack to 1762; but is only
one of many reminders of colonial days that the tourist
meets in Xewburyport. They bring to mind the city's
historic past when its clippers sailed round the world
and its name was interwoven with tales of romantic
adventure on the high seas. There are other quaint
survivals. For we were told that the town crier still
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
walks his rounds here, though of late the office has
been stripped of much of its old-time majesty. If this
relic exists, however, we caught no sound of the crier's
bell as we rambled through the Quaker-like calm of
highway and byway.
The next morning brought propitious trolley weather
and we were soon whirling northward again. The
high wind had died out and in mild air and gentle
THAT HORRID INSURANCE MAN AGAIN
breeze the dash o\-er the Merrimac was as exhilarating
as the ride across the Chelsea bridge the morning before
had been uncomfortable.
As the jangle of the trolley gong Inu'st in upon the
deep repose of Salisbury, the first station out of New-
buryport, Louisa suddenly exclaimed : " Do look.
There's that horrid insurance man again; " and turning
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON 121
I saw a tall figure in blue striding towards the station.
We expected him to pounce down upon us the next
moment and hail us wuth familiar flourish of insurance
documents. Great was our relief, however, on scrut-
inizing the stranger more closely to discover that
though the resemblance was marked the man was not
our tormentor. Indeed, we never laid eyes again upon
the insurance man; but we learned upon our return
home that our fun-loving friends in a sane interval had
called off the demon from the pursuit.
As we journeyed on from Salisbury, the number of
trolley excursionists increased rapidly. Another
change at State Line and rapid trolley ing (rapid, at
least, according to Essex standards) along the New
Hampshire shore soon brought in sight the embank-
ment at Hampton Beach.
A board walk ran its entire length and midway rose
a pavilion from which floats strains of " My Lover Is
on the Deep Blue Sea," mingled impartially with
" What Are the Wild Waves Saying? " The futility,
however, of such an enquiry was evident to us as we
took our first glance seaward ; and even the musicians,
when the lusty notes of the trombone died away, must
have confessed that the waves had nothing whatever
to say for publication. The sea w'as washing the sandy
beach in placid ripples, while to the northeast we could
make out the long, black outlines of Boar's Head jut-
ting out into the sea. Few bathers were visible, but
here and there groups of children, linked hand in hand,
were making merry on the glistening sand.
Glancing across the roadway in front of the pavilion,
Louisa saw a large flaring sign near a horse-shoe arch-
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
way announcing in bold letters " Shore Dinner; " and
she promptly suggested that we should explore its
Its active principle proved to be clams, though in
many forms. There were clams in the stew and on
the shell; clams minced and devilled; steamed and
roasted; fried and strained; clams, in short, in every
guise. Yet all the courses were toothsome, all the
more, perhaps, because " Shore Dinner " etiquette
sanctions the primitive use of one's fingers in lieu of
forks; and we rose from the feast firm converts to a
new faith, clammy though it was. As we emerged
from the horse-shoe, we heard the rumble of the Ports-
mouth car and we signaled just in time to get aboard.
We fled none too soon; for while we were speeding
A TEOLLEY HONEYMOON 123
along the embankment, we could see the atmosphere
around the music pavilion writhing in torture under
the jugglery of Hi — but let it be nameless.
As we trolleyed through the Ryes (three of them)
our course gradually swerved from the shore and
stretched at last through a quiet countryside, zigging
and zagging into Portsmouth.
Our first glimpse of this city brought back vivid
memories of Newburyport. Not only its rambling
roofs, antique gables and stately shade trees are rem-
iniscent of the Massachusetts city, but it is enriched
with an equal wealth of tradition. Such an atmos-
phere coulcl not but lay its spell upon Louisa, who had
here one of her severest attacks of history. A notable
landmark is the old tavern, where in the days of Gov-
" Neat as a pin and blooming as a rose
Stood Mistress Stavers in her furbelows.
Just as her cuckoo clock was striking nine
Above her head, resplendent on the sign."
Portsmouth, too, has more than its past to endow it
with interest. For it still continues to make history
and make it in daily nectareous kegs, as the fame of
its local brewery attests.
A ferry ride across the bay to Kittery on the Maine
shore made a brief interruption in our trolleying. We
found the little ferry boat crowded with passengers,
for the trip from Kittery to York Beach is a most
popular one. Most of them had the New England
seriousness of mien; and, though evidently tourists,
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
yet as they stood huddled together on the forward deck
they looked almost as depressed as if they were Siberian
convicts on their way to Tomsk. Not so the purser,
however; he was a jovial-looking soul who bore a
resemblance to Sir Thomas Lipton. When I asked
permission to snap him, he stepped out most consid-
erately into the broiling sun and with a resigned air
bade me do my worst. I did it.
IN OLD PORTSMOUTH
The beach car was waiting on the INIaine side near
the ferry slip; and as the passengers streamed from
the boat, the motorman sounded the warning gong.
Of course everybody broke into a run, in which we
joined with an eagerness inspired by the knowledge
that it was our last stampede. Before we jumped
aboard I snapped the car; and the next second we were
A TROLLEY HONEYMOON
whirling toward York Beach
or more of goodly trolleyin
urable portions of the trip.
" What place is this? " I
man as we clambered out c
" The jumping-off place,"
asperity in his tone.
Our journey of five hundr
a parting shot from Killdeer
gently inverted him. Not a
. Then followed ten miles
g, one of the most pleas-
asked a venerable-looking
)f the car at the terminal
he returned with a marked
ed miles was over. I fired
; and beheading Nicholas,
nickel was left.
'NOT A NICKEL WAS LEFT'
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